Languages and cultures slither towards me from either side of a long wooden table I’m sitting at.
The familiarity of the slow and the foreign rocks me to the rhythm of an emptying glass of wine. Dialogues, contents of which I am not interested in nor crave to know any more. The silence here recalls dronescape of train stations or arid lands.
She dwells in the centre, panopticum, all seeing eye. A question slowly leaks from a drunken cloud of a black, silky fur of her mind: ” Does the world go around or do I walk in circles?” She watches : spacious, tall insides of this alien place, glass fortress of straight sex, business, and expensive diners.
Do I care?
Well I did have expectations, I fantasised, but the smooth usual revealed the common truth :
no wish of mine would be granted in this land of foreign possibilities, though local nightmares can come true.
Seeing familiar faces makes her anxious.
Handsome men of no interest to her, she’s sexist. How come she is?
……right right, and… did you track down….lost in the…..
Men met and talked to not much apart from the usual greetings and glass walls.
Be it.
Handsomeness of men in their forties enjoyed but women’s preferred. Really.
The slickness of these smooth lives does not arouse. Bodies confident and forward moving,
it all seems action not a furtive doubt.
Glass stays firm above her, straight as the air of the compound, straight, translucent, goal oriented.
Dialogues pop out instantly like babies. Perfect place for self reflection.
So be it
Cruising Garden Poetry 