In the war-torn city, O My dearest one,

you’ve refined the quantities,the cooking and the timinglike a pro..and eating it – you’re even morebrilliant at that – you caneat breakfast, read the paper,listen to the radio or tv,half listen to the wife and kids,make and take those cellphone calls;then bestow a salty bacon,sweet marmaladey kiss on several lipsor cheeks – and off..But today…

take shit / effoffYEAH! ! !zzzzzzzz nn?? ! ? ! ? !– – – – –

This disgusting August dayso hot and sticky that the sweat can’t sweat,your collar and cuffs a wet grey grime,the sunlight graceless through the concrete cliffs,the shade no shade but fetid oven,the street signs almost too tired to communicateand faces too tired to be human,in a squalid room up therebest left undescribedand a lifestyle defined by…

quietlysomething which isperfect in itselfthento praise or to encourageseems almost likean insultto them orto perfectionI just wanted to saywhat I’ve saidand you and Ishare something which isbeyond the wordswhich we arrangeupon the pageto honour‘something understood’

not quite to be called boyishlike her haircut,indeterminate of age –a worn sixteen; an undeveloped twenty-six?but in a year or two, she seemed the latterthough her vulnerable, aggressive stancemade age irrelevant.had she been more confident, more inyerfaceshe’d have been lesbait, no doubt of that; I feltuncomfortable around her, as you do, however kind,around those who…

now you’ve reminded me and thank you –they know they have to stand with their back to the sunso, without thinking of you, butthinking of their future thinking about the pastthey make you stand facing the sunso you squint and screw your eyes up which is bad enoughwhile they take random advice from the other…