Poetry

Plums in Honey







What has become of the dating game? We’ll see.






Ernesto revels in his love-beads as Angela bakes her much treasured lemon-cake.






The entire den is subdued. Leo warns of his rising ire, but we’re not discussing Pompeii.






The Plimptons have consumed their third packet of Student Feed in this epoch of wasabi-coated peas.






Bernard slips out with Pat for a joint. Pat comes back showered in a Roman triumph of soap-stone cones.






Poetry is the object here, but are we really motivated?






Bernard lounges on the porch dreaming of a steak and beer night in the Ardennes, the two children asleep.






Leo names them in a cheap move to bring down the house.






This morning Eve saw a small group, cupping their hands at the edge of the pool. A fourth stood off playing a button accordion. He sang of perspiring empires and nights beneath the Mario Plaza.






We got jealous.






When you’ve nothing to say sing it, when you’ve nothing to think … … and so on. Plums in honey.






Otherwise, there’s shopping with the Bin Ladens in the Via Barbuino. At least we can tag along, unlike the no-show Pope.






I promised mum, with her crook knee and mean tortellini. Here she is.






The years only leave us with speculation. They are our touch judges. Our concreters. Filling the gaps where our bodies had been.


The olive oil skin, the acacias, the footprints on the beach like a Bolivian heiress.