Small World

Of all the mini bars in all the cities in all the world,

he has to turn up in this one. Packed to its cold tin

roof with sexy containers, scantily clad in their bright

Gaudi posters, all of them whispering, ‘Round here,

it’s always Happy Hour’.

.

But I haven’t come this far to be sucked in so easily.

He can wait, as I linger awhile at the mouth

of the labyrinth, while I flirt for a while with the slender

Moscovian, intrigued by the fact I can see

right through him.

.

Moving on, I bypass that Jack from Kentucky.

He’s keeping some rum company these days: raiders

from the Caribbean, intent on caning some day-

dazzled drifters, luring them in with in with their high proof

boasting. Well they don’t impress me.

.

I’m a city dweller. I want perfumed gardens,

stuffed with Star of Anise and juniper berries, cinnamon

and sun-roasted coffee beans; diaphanous cordials

of peaches and coconut, ravishing cocktails

of colour and light.

.

And cognacs, those rich flavoured rivers

that run on the tongue in the bars and the attics

of Baudelaire’s alleyways; and Oentrian echoes

in Calabrian grappas, and sweet sassy schnapps

from Cologne and Berlin.

.

But deep in the heart of this luscious repository, the boy

from the Bushmill’s still waiting. And he’s telling his tales

of bravado and passion, of dreams and adventures,

of heroes and lovers. And he’s playing the crowd.

And I’m drowning.