small talk

Katishaw, fearless Abyssinian, uncoils:
in one bound she is on the centipede
—well, she is there:
staring wide eyed at the rhythmic
scurry away from her claws.

If she were a traffic cop at a scene
she would be demanding I.D.
but here, the only law she is laying down
is herself: she lounges alert, adjusts,
shuffles her hind quarters ready to leap:

any self-respecting mouse would
be petrified or gone.
But the centipede ruffles on
unruffled across the rug escaping
the kitten’s short—hey, a mite of dust!

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conversation

Who else would sit here
nodding, pretending to care
about whatever comes into my head?
I’d like a straw for my juice, please, dear.

There was a time
I could care less about robots
but not any more;
now they have entered every aspect of life:
they help us dress,
they clean up after us
they tidy our things
they guard our possessions
they fetch anything we need
they wheel us around
they chauffeur us when we go out
they do just about all manual labour
and they have the advantage that
they never need a day off
nor time to sleep.

They never talk back,
they are attentive
but never bored,
always there when you need them

I just wish they could be made
with human facial expressions:
that blank stare of yours is a bit unnerving.

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close

Let them stand in line together:
he, with his seven canvas bags
she, with her packsack and purse.

The procession of acolytes
waits to undertake at the check in desk
the ceremony of tagging the luggage.

They could be pilgrims circling
the Holy Mosque in Mecca
or patrons waiting for a liquor store to open.

The tense boredom prevents socializing;
but he can smell her musky perfume,
she his breezy aftershave.

She notes his rumpled gortex;
he evaluates her powdered cleavage.
She drops her purse: things scatter.

A clerk calls for the next passenger:
he steps past her as she fumbles at
her stuff, betrayed by her swimming eyes.

Posted in lotus eaters, Poetry, serial | Tagged , , | 2 Comments