NO PANE NO GAIN

Last week when I returned
I found my desk
covered in dust
family photos dispersed
other documents damaged:
(no prof should have an empty desk).
I had been away
and wondered if colleagues
had enacted a cremation
scattering my ashes
with a light but disorganising touch.

 

So four weeks is all it takes, I mused,
to incinerate the idea
of me, my work,
my modelling clay, my canvas.
Then through my jet-lag
I saw a pane was missing
from my window. Robbery
on the second floor?
But when I looked outside
I saw it dead and broken
on the ground.

 

So much for my paranoia,
but at my age when time
runs backwards towards dependency,
when the diminished locust in me
seeks its spent chrysalis
as a refuge,
anything is possible.

 

Well it’s not, actually –
and that’s the problem.

TIPPING POINT

Large cappuccino please.
Quatre dollars the barista replies:
this is Le Grand Café
on Clarence at Alliance Française.

 

When transferring coins from pocket
two slipped.  Bien attraper!!
the barista smiles. They do not
hit the floor nor are they in my hand. 

 

My custom is this: order morning coffee
then to the loo while it brews.
When I open my fly two coins fall
into the bowl, glint with a watery smile. 

 

Who knows where money has been
my mother said, urging me to wash my hands
before eating after touching coins –
and certain other things. 

 

Back in the café my coffee beckons,
Christmas decorations on the lights and wall –
goodwill in tinsel; the season of gifts –  
today I leave a two-coin tip.