poetry – Brinkinfield

Checkout Conversation

Asked if I need a bag for my groceries
Sheepishly, I confess that I do
Next question: “Did you find everything you needed?”
Half-heartedly, I report that I had done so
followed impulsively by: “Mission accomplished.”
Which, I immediately regret

The regret shows in my eyes
and the unconscious way in which
I draw inwards my lower lip
Signalling an involuntary slip
A blip
the unfathomable need to extend an answer
beyond a simple “Yes.”

She sees my regret
and remains silent
What did I expect?
A laugh?
A smile?
An amusingly cute riposte?

Her eyes focus on the job in hand
my groceries pass through her hands
transferring them from shopping basket
across a red light scanner
before packing them neatly
into the compostable plastic carrier

Œuf Vierge

She enters my bubble, sits facing me in this here American diner
staring straight out across the table, expecting me to recognise and remember

I retain my apparent composure as a power station fuels a search
through the totality of my memory

A brief, sensual smile disappears so fast, I’m not sure it was ever there

Out from shadows, a staff member readied approaches
fingers clasping notebook and pen poised

“An unbroken egg please; not boiled, fried, scrambled nor poached.” My company instructs, delivered matter of fact. “Shell left intact.”

Okay remember, this is New York, thinks the young and intelligent waiter
I’ll just provide what she wants and laugh to myself about it later

The waiter asks, “A coffee refill, for Sir?”
Expectant, hanging on for an answer

“Yes, he will.” My uninterruptible bubble invader opposite commands
“Because you like coffee, don’t you?”

Fran, Windenberger and I

Fran pours a little positivity into my cup
With a letter (finally) replying to my own
Enclosed with her letter an exhibition guide

‘Des images en partage’
Exposition Photographique
Jacques Windenberger

It’s all written in French.
But is relatively easy enough to comprehend
Within the booklet, examples flow
Yet, in this age of image saturation
I like some lots, I like some less so

Because, everyone does this sort of thing now
Everyone takes all different photos imaginable
Who has style any more?
Who has a distinct style?

Not Windenberger
Not me
Not you, either

Old Actors

How did everyone get so old?
I can’t believe the Picard series three.
I kept wanting to yell at the fumbling Patrick Stewart to speak up!
I couldn’t hear him because his voice was so weak.

And what happened to Joaquin Phoenix?
How did he get so old all of a sudden?
Wasn’t he young, until recently?
Just how old is he?

Much of the Time

Much of the time, this is how I look
This is not a moment caught in time
Not my react, told it’s my turn to cook
This is me, appearance far from fine

Illness creates this expression face
With eyes open, gapes large my mouth too
Mouth shuts, normal, nothing out of place
When I blink or sleep all the night through

Anyone Know?

This Sunday morning
Do I hear a lark sing
Heralding spring?
I really don’t know
It could be a crow
For all I know

The first lark of spring
Is that a thing?
Or is it the cuckoo
I really don’t know
It could be an emu
For all I know

Marcel’s Last Day in Marseille

Of the options available
late, early or punctual
I am usually late

Toward the port
I stride through
Old Marseille

I see him there
in familiar dark grey
suit made from linen

Sat outside his favourite café
Le Coq Bleu
a small coffee cup and saucer
sits on the table
newspaper is open
leg crossed over other

Are You A Vampire Or Not?

is it childish to write about make-believe?
I am writing about vampires here

you didn’t find it funny when I raised
the subject of vampirism
and I’m still not exactly sure why
what nerve I touched there

the next time it came up
by chance
with your man present
you both exchanged a knowing glance
one that silently communicated something
what still I’m not sure

I realise the famous vampire didn’t come from around here
where you live

Nobody Knows

Nobody knows
what’s happened to my nose
Apparently, I’m meant to know

Nobody says
‘Don’t you know
what happened to your nose?’

‘No’ I say to Nobody
‘but you know’
‘Yes’ Nobody says ‘just like you said’

‘Surely you must know too!
You don’t just lose a nose
not without knowing nothing about it.’

‘It happened a long time ago,’ I tell nobody
‘and I can’t remember anything about last week,
something I used to joke about

‘but now I know this to be true
I forget to laugh’
Nobody listens on intently

What Was My Home

This is where I lived for many years
I recall
fighting back the tears
‘But Brink in Field – or whatever your name is’
you say to me
‘That’s no house that’s
something else’

I know
I know
It’s not much like a house
but that’s on purpose
You see
nobody visited me while I lived there and to be fair
that’s how I wanted it to be
That’s exactly how I wanted it to be