Fountain Pen Poem

If my friend Peter can start an Apple blog, I too can post a technical piece-- it just needs to be scanned in first, as it was written with superior technology:



Watch this space! I have no scanner, so need an Internet cafe first ...

Some of my best friends

Six Hours Behind

Some of my best friends
are Americans, and behind
by six or more hours

Some of my best friends wake up
well into my day
and fall asleep early morning

Some of my best friends
leave me emails in my sleep
and call us Y'all

Some of my best friends
have never been to Europe
or only once, and crave

cheeseburgers if they do
and want us to straighten out
our roads over here

Some of my friends don't understand
siestas or multi-colored Euro bills
or no ice to be had

for love or money. My best friends
have never seen Europe
in movies, the way we've seen siding

in that alien mint-green, boys throwing
newspapers and wide wide cars
made for straight Texas roads.

Some of my best friends know
hurricanes on a first name, shake palms
basis. Am I lucky or what?

Shisa

Rye Road Laundry

He fishes out my missing sock
from the spin-drier, shows me the gap
they escape through. It's that little-girl number
I bought in England, lipsticks
and mirrors dancing pinkly all over.
I am embarrassed, but he is only concerned
about his convenience store and pizza-to-go
losing money, and how much a sale would fetch.
I describe my walk round the lake, how good
to be alone, not like the gossipy
women in pairs, shoulders tense, bitching about work
and ex-husbands, not looking around at gathering
geese or golden birches. "My ex walks
there every day," he says. I go even redder.

Rye Road Revisited

This morning, Indian tea by my window, the steam
of wet leaves just right for the view
of the common lawn under golden drifts, a pensioner
bent against the wind at 8 30 am, behind
a wheeled walker, early for the supermarket
as the old always are, shuffling as fast
as he can, followed by a fourteen-year old, cap
low and sagging backpack, late for school
as the young always are, slouching as slowly
as possible. The two keep perfect pace along the path.

Airport Plog

Most of the time, I really like them.
Airports.

Still, I remember the shop-girl in a U.S. airport who told me customers are extra nasty in airports. She had worked in a local shop before, where everyone tends to be nice, as they will have to deal with the same shop tomorrow.
In airports, customers sometimes think they will never see you again anyway...

"But I remember!" she said. And added that some are very nervous about flying. Which is an excuse. Sometimes.

You pick up knowledge in airports:
Layered soup-- heard about that from a Jamaica, Queens bartender at LaGuardia, on my way to Florida: the thick peasoup sinks to the bottom, the thin minestrone stays on top.
Tastes good, too.

This is my view from the Tivoli Restaurant in Copenhagen Airport, before the pickled herring and clear Aalborg aquavit arrives...On the day President Bush landed and we were delayed for a couple of hours: all traffic ceased.
That's my plane waiting.