now it’s backpacks and kettle chips, have you got the keys?
The car is parked legally for one hour only says the sign in
something ancient. A superflux of vowels. The rain’s wetting the map
here and in Cornwall, Darling hand it to me.
I’m allowed to be angry, mine’s an untranslatable face, I’m scowling unaccented
it’s a cedilla scowl – Jesus watch out! Mopeds. When in
anyone gets served here, anyone
that kid’s got a dummy in one hand and a pint in the other-
Look up at the escarpment and from below the trains look like muscles flexing on the hill
but I can’t see that yet, the oculist hasn’t held One or Two? It’s failing
to look right. They drive on the right here.
And their steaks are rare and their lunches long
which is good because we only have an hour and have we lost the car keys
I think you mean you, have you lost the car keys
Don’t point the finger except to place with exactitude the path of a cave dweller’s steps.
Puddled by misty millennia and a sensitivity to custom huts; the escaped sun,
warming me through a black awning, a Brasserie heat and my resolve is broken by
the threat of mussels flexing on a lofty plate. Ninety degrees to my right.
Creased correctly the napkin folds like a tent
and shelters the breadcrumbs from arrant gulps of Evian. A superflux of spit
and vowels, sand-sodden towels, stray dogs, I found the keys