I dont know what she really does for
Other than she lives.
Perhaps it is to squeeze beer mats dry
Or smile curtly at the customers,
Whose stains she intermittently wipes.
A rat ran between our legs
Dripping with liquid; smelling
For drains. The sun wove itself
In the patchy fur of its back.
She stood unfazed
Like a mast in a half-expected squall
Yet I noticed the squalid cloth in her hand
Crumbling under the squeeze;
Her white knuckles froze with pressure.
Nothing was spoken, the window was closing.
I wanted to bite her lips for pleasure
But between us sat a table and several
No whistles could be heard. No fox cries or
Just the continuous sound overhead
Of a possibility swarm
Humming sadly and very loud.
If you've any comments on his poem, Hassan
Abdulrazzak would be pleased to
hear from you.