Waitresses at the Golf Club
Men’s voices boom off the ceiling
in circles of sound, a lumbering
inferno of explosive vowels
and clank of change in trouser pockets,
old scores and macho swaggers
that swell and unravel
to a sudden cacophony of haw-haw- haws:
Where are the women?
Giants among the sitting
they glide in soft-soled shoes
gathering up soggy scraps of conversation,
flicking away salacious undertones
their black uniform invisible
against Viyella pastels,
their presence an undertone of steam, a hissing
samizdat of white noise.
A Woman Consoles An Orang Utan On A Cruise Ship
Photograph, no details
She has eyebrows shaped like teardrops,
hair marcelled into stocking-stitch.
His hairy, over-sized suit almost covers enormous feet.
Three leather digits fat as bangers
curl at her neck. His other arm
droops slant across her shoulder,
a seen-better- times feather boa.
A city pier looms. This moment
has been coming towards me
all my life.
They hold one another
it’s the end of the world.
I breathe in chambers
Pressed by rain
Unmoored by a big moon
I am whisper and antiphon
Trepanning with your blunted
Spoons your whittled stakes
Nothing defies or
I am shield I am witness
Only for the purpose
No mother I am or was