In and out, Hybrid & Community meal
by Henrietta Cullinan
[ poetry - february 08 ]
In and out
I walked five miles to your house
in Turnpike Lane and rang the bell.
They'd never heard of you.
You gave me the wrong address
when you stuck that post-it
into an afternoon I saved on empty.
I tried a phone book search
in Europe and Pittsburgh
but couldn't spell your name.
How can I find you in Poland
when I can't even find you here,
High Road of veg.?
Better that the last time I saw you
the cut on the head had healed
your eyes were milky-marble bulging.
You tapped me a couple of quid
for old times and I gave you an embrace
out of my trolley, a banana, I embraced you.
Hybrid
A man with a hobbled walk, he wasn't drunk
but had that kind of face,
was pulling a young wolf on a chain,
when a boy in a stained anorak
hopped out from behind a garden gate.
The wolf stood on its hind legs and bit him
and the man said, 'He won't hurt you. Tyson sit.'
The boy rubbed his nose on his sleeve,
then picked up a stone to throw at his sister.
The man hobbled on and the wolf
wound itself around his legs,
parting its mouth to show black gums,
long tongue and herring bone teeth
but not a howling sound.
Community meal
What a thing to do on Sunday; unfold the tables,
set out the leaf-skinned oranges when penalties roll
from the Emirates stadium to Walthamstow Marsh.
I was slackening tuna with mayonnaise
and the guests arrived
each carrying a bottle of White Ace for later.
They said 'yes' loudly to coffee and ten sugars,
stretched out swollen hands to look for meat
Don't let him touch the food, Is this the ham I get?
I say no to sandwiches. The margarine reminds me
of hot sectionals at music camp, playing in bare feet,
the cello that stayed indoors while I
lay in a borrowed tent, wondering about the broken zip
and being first to kiss the tenor horn.
