Half price at the airport,
and first to board,
they drift
like blowing leaves
through the parking lot,
perfectly unmoved
by the Starbucks cups
flying from their sandals
like scurrying rats.
In robes that blend perfectly
with nothing
(papaya, fuchsia,
maraschino —
succulent shades
designed to humiliate
my industrial-grey silence),
they straddle their hips
like rickety mopeds,
putt-putting down inner alleyways
backfiring
engulfing everyone in a choking cloud
of equanimity.
It’s not hard to imagine,
if they lifted their gaze from the ground,
what they might think:
Look over there:
a classic shot
of scenery’s broken promise.
Have respect for the gentleman,
look away,
your mind, his mind —
tourists on the toilet
with the runs.
Over coffee, in my dreams,
I feel how
like a scalpel
round a suspicious freckle,
a grey-stubbled elder is tempted
to autopsy my gaze.
But no need.
He knows all about
the rolling StarMonk cups
proudly displaying
their broken lineage of heat.
Why I won’t study the littered ground:
Too much like the ivory rats
to merge with them.
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StarMonks |
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