The hostages
by Andrew O'Donnell
[ poetry - august 06 ]
An unknown language barks across the linoleum
while I cough in my wristband, hammer out a
sandwich -
fondle it into the shape of the only museum
I know. The kitchen mumbles to the applause of a
faucet
and friends of no distinguishable shape or size
soap their mitts, heads foregrounding an avalanche
of frothing Trivial Pursuit cards. No
wiser,
we touch the board, feeling among wrappers,
stretching
out toes - for those all important fractions of pie.
The men re-enter, bells tinkling booted ankles,
carrying thick slabs of accordion - their slow
whines
proceed to tune up; a sourced lung then dampens
our un-scrunched ears. Outside two accordions on
leads
rip chunks from Auld Lang Syne. We go for Chinese.
