Pistachios & Old Speckled Hen

Pistachios and Old Speckled Hen,
my way of rejoicing – I survived the
morning’s shopping. She lured me
into a false sense of security, a
cheery smile and warm hand, lead
me down Kensington High Street
towards Nottinghill Gate – past two
internet cafes locked and vacated,
failed enterprises in the wake of a
Broadband revolution – no Homeric
sense of equivalence to placate.

Whilst we walked in the muted
halls of Marks & Spencer, past
displays of opulent wares I thought
of the Parisienne who stole my cell
phone – I say it was the whoreson
Jean-Jacques, the Cellar Restaurant
lickspittle, bastard of the Latin
Quarter. Oh, I meant to ruin your
play, meant to slaughter the phone
with my internet key, find an open
cafe by going the other way.

It was not to be. No, I do not blame
you in the least, you do not live out
where the mind expands, where
diesel fumes are free of enzymes
making you a thief; in that I find an
easy comfort, a sense of grand relief.
But here and now I am released from
shopping duties by her kind consent,
at ease again, relaxed, taking pleasure
as I feast on pistachios and drink
from cans of Old Speckled Hen.
© 26 September 2007, I. D. Carswell