Leaving a bedsit’s fickle gasfire flame,
You make it to the corner shop that’s seen
Far better days than his fluorescent name,
But then his moon-white face appears between
The shelves and high glass counters, lush with rows
Of Swiss liqueurs, dragées and cigarettes
And hangs there patiently as if he knows
The types that Sunday evening brings and lets
Him fantasise on whom they left behind
In flats still warm with clinging sheets, while you
Feel naked in deliberation, mind
Lit up by fancy import packs on view.
Then, ‘What will be your pleasure, sir?’ he says,
Straight-faced, but knowing wink of meaning in
The joke réchauffé from his Navy days
And, like his seedy silk cravat, worn thin.
Tongue-tied and tight, still dreaming things, you look
About for something quite unorthodox,
Much in the same way he once came unstuck,
An Aden brothel where he caught the pox.
Then as you shuffle awkwardly to go,
Hands lightly clasping Turkish filter tips,
He dreams a body for you left to glow,
Sheets pulled up to a pair of smouldering lips;
Then sits back in the parlour, one eye on
The television set, the other cranes
Towards the mirror once the bell has gone
And false teeth mint the smile he entertains.
You with your counter culture and the flame
Of gas-fired youth, he with his plate glass screen,
Find some reflection you can barely name
Across the distance lying in between.
