Spaghetti

Spaghetti

He’d learned from an early age.
From his forever-ancient father.
Hands across the dinner table.
Dad liked things done properly.
“We do not eat like savages.”
But there was that one scene
in “Lady And The Tramp”…

She’d never been taught. At home
they’d sometimes had limp hoops
on toast. TV trays and soaps.
Never gave it a thought ‘til now.
Blush lushing up by candlelight.
His eyes on her untrained fork.
Rejection slithery and inevitable.

His expert wrist twirls on his side
of the table. Twisting efficiently.
Cool demonstration of dexterity.
She wishes she’d ordered steak.
He wishes he’d learned something
else from his father. How to reach
hands across the dinner table.

Hazardous Waste

Hazardous Waste

All day, I kept seeing holes,
road works and barriers.
Gas mains and water pipes.
Signs with red lines slicing,
for our own safety,
for public protection.
Flashing yellow lights.
And holes, all these holes.
Darkness, danger and answers.
I thought of falling and him.

I’d buy him a T-shirt saying
“No Entry – Keep Out.”
But he doesn’t need it.
It’s the headline on tonight’s paper.
The scum on the untouched coffee.
His fingers tapping impatient
on his keyboard, while I flap
my mouth, fumbling language
he won’t try to translate.
My tongue is too obscure.

I give up and do the dishes
watching my open-book reflected
in the black window. Stroking knives
unseen under antiseptic bubbles.
Synthetic scents and toxins
flagged on detergent bottles.

Tomorrow I will see more signs.
More holes to tempt falling.
More labels. More neon symbols
to ward me away. Tomorrow I will
open my eyes to “Hazardous Waste.”

Ways To Say…

Ways To Say…

Could dispatch
a carrier pigeon,
or twit a Tweet,
or S.W.A.L.K.
a snail mail.

Could puff a smoke signal,
or click a Facebook “poke”.
Could tag a photo.
Could flick a virtual

kiss. Could say
something with flowers
or a Gorilla-gram.
Or just thumb

a text.
Short.
Succinct.
Smiling.
To say….

Yes? In the old days
(y’know, Pre-Millennium?)
we used to just
pick up the phone…

(…pulse pounding,
handset slippy in hot palm,
twirling the cord
round nervous fingers,
quick breath echoing
back on the dial tone…)

… just pick up the phone
and call.
If we wanted.

It’s still an option…