We met at a crowded Irish pub
with poorly arranged seating.
Your head was breaching from under the table.
It was the only way you could get to the chair.
You spilled my wine and I complained bitterly,
but never drank the rest.

A wide shaft of hair covered a third of my face.
Was this a stunning work of fashion
or the first leak of darkness
from a mind that was breaking?
Your sorrows were circus bears
ballroom dancing, and I could hear myself cackle
like a Faberge bookend hitting the floor.

I went home with you.
I was afraid to leave someone
who was so good at nostalgia.

Headlights from the street
reflected into your apartment
like fairy dust upon the dust.
Smoothly the conversation
set me on your vinyl couch.
Another country whispered through your voice,
interrogating my checkpoints. I was devastated
by your cup of tea.

A month in your shower curtain
showed me Buddha, Kong Fuzi,
and your face with a glowing nose
(you called it “idiosyncretic”).
It was made from the same plastic
used in sentimental photo albums
to corrode the images of the dead.

A beautiful day reminded me
I had to get back to my ship,
by which I mean the ship I am paid to clean.
You said it was a poetic injustice.
You said I could never escape
because you would hear the clatter of my heels
against a sidewalk of tarred together pieces of me.

This dark, yet very humourous piece thrilled me from beginning to end.
The storytelling, the observations crystal clear, the madness of it all you undergo like a silent visitor with the appropriate amount of distance so the reader stays connected: all of it incredibly amusing, smart and very, very good.

Regards,
K

I'll be back for a proper comment later, I hope - but

This is sheer brilliance...

Mike

Talented work. The knowing confidence is astounding. Are the checkpoints mixed drinks ?

Dear Don...

another country whispers through your words to me, because either you or I seem to be from afar...

and I obviously have so much to learn to follow all of what is happening. Certainly I get the gist of your storytelling, but it is not so clear to me as it seems to be to everyone else. That's probably about me and not your writing, however.

The "leak of darkness" and "conversation set me on your vinyl couch" are excellent choices of words. I'm puzzling over the "month in your shower curtain" and "sidewalk of tarred together pieces of me". Obviously I have a lot to ponder at this point.

But I'm here to learn more about this poetic injustice.

deLighting in the process, Daniel

With 'a month in your shower curtain', I think Don means the length of time of the rather eccentric relationship he had. He stayed at her flat and showered there. Some shower curtains wrap themselves around you when you start washing...

The ending line, for me, refers to the memory this lady will hold of him....from which there is no escape.

Correct me if I'm wrong, Don :) It's how I read it anyway.

Regards,
K

thanks for the kind words, everyone!

Daniel, it is odd, surreal stuff. I don't deny it!

K, you seem to be on my vibration... :) ... though I might not be the narrator...