The Rook

On leaving home without a pen
the history of the day is lost
like a telephone number or a heart
closing my eyes has brought me here
to this place of strange faces
which one are you, Kafka, the film star,
the jackdaw or the waitress?
Everyone loves to play cards
at the cowboy movie table
to shuffle hearts and diamonds
to shoot derringers,
to wear a sheriff’s badge over a Levi jacket
to be the quickest Art student
in the Wild West
to be the man who played guitar
with Ricky Valence
to play the man who got shot in Deadwood
to play the drums in Abilene
with the Grateful Dead.
The dead are carried out
through the bat-swing doors to the graveyard
where I first met the waitress
walking barefoot on Boot Hill
she makes me blush as she flaunts
her film star beauty
writes names and numbers into notebooks
with a black pen like a poet at a funeral.
When she walks out of shot
to make coffee in the kitchen
I sip wine with the old cheese crowd
 
stagger off home at the end of the night
to play jukebox jazz in the nursery rhyme dark
to read Kafka before falling asleep
in my semi-detached suburban castle.
 
On leaving home without paper and pen
I mourn the minutes
of meetings on street corners
that never get written down
I move through this city
which is unknown to me
a city born out of the dust of night
a city of dream intoxicated fiction
which exists for a moment
or for as long as it takes
the long finger of a train
to vanish into a pocket of fog.
As soon as I left home yesterday
the road back to it had gone
this is my country now
where I stop at a crossroads
for a cup of coffee
stop for a year or two
or the rest of the night.
I take a key and a silver spoon
out of my pocket
spend a little tax haven cash
take the stairs to a rooftop room
plonk my shoulder bag down
go sleep walking above the garage bands
and the car horns playing traffic jazz.
The next morning
 
shortly after the rooster let’s rip
a door scrapes back the darkness of a room
veiled against the well-lit streets
that brought me here.
I climb out of my sleeping bag
that unzipped heap of dreams
drop down into an armchair
to update my diary
to write a goodbye note to yesterday
to write a letter to my hometown’s
three hundred thousand doormats.
 
As the ink dries over silver birch skin
I cross the room over a creak of footsteps
sleepily draw back the curtains to discover
the fading splendour of the Milky Way
in a telescope on the windowsill.
It must be the winter solstice
if it isn’t, it is now.
 
On leaving home on Christmas Eve
I go shopping for cards
to send to my grandchildren
living on the island of fish and chips.
Much to my surprise the film star
is working in the Post Office.
She drops my hidden kisses
into a bag over her shoulder.
I don’t know her name
or how to bring her closer
but in the sequel shot the next night
she’s dining out at the coven
 
of the oddly shaped table
in this city which has forgotten
to tell you its name
a city which is as old as birdsong
as old as the laughter on her bright red lips
I take coins out of my pocket
for a hurricane on the rocks
take the last chair at the table.
Flicking through the pages of an old newspaper
I read the horoscope
starting with Aries.
Much to my delight
the film star is sitting next to the jackdaw
whose command of English
is straight out of the school
of Richard Adams.
Hiding my smile like a double vodka diplomat
I gaze out over the zodiac
of earth, air, fire and water
see that the jackdaw
is playing chess with Kafka.
Kafka’s fingers are caressing the queen
the jackdaw’s feathers are stroking a rook
the film star makes her move
sweeping me away from star sign gazing
I look into her eyes
see my undercover is broken
but not yet my heart
look down at her hand
to see if she’s wearing a wedding ring
to see if her hand is covered in diamonds
but can’t make out the shape of anything
 
resembling a husband underneath her gloves
and in that moment when our heads tilt
under some constellation of mistletoe
the waitress approaches the table
whispers something in Kafka’s ear
as the moon moves over the cusp
the sun does its abracadabra thing
in the night sky
the rain starts to fall
the rain makes a nice a cup of coffee
the dream ends in mid-conversation
as we slip back through the curtains
that brought us here
punching in a combination of numbers
to another world
we drive there in an Alfa Romeo.

 

Kenny Knight

 

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