The Interview
I got out,
confident I’d done well,
and to reward myself
stopped
and picked up
a half
of afternoon wine
and a jar of black olives.
the office
had been on the river in london,
just below chelsea
and staring
at the airport
where helicopters took off
like swinging spiders
hung in the air.
the light
was good as a new coin
and my suit
shiny as shoeleather.
I sat on a bridge
looking over the river
with my tie in my pocket.
a little drunk,
devouring olives.
they were salty
and firm
and delicious;
like meat
grown out
of the ground.
Fight
slinging thick,
the buildings
tower like rocks on a shore
and insults
slung
sting harder
than plates.
we are outside
throwing dishes at each other
to explain
better than words
each
our own
unhappiness.
overhead
moths
flop like buzzards
and on the table
wineglasses
tremble with impact. a mouse
scrambling from its hole
ducks back
in terror by our shouting.
darkness moves in over us,
held off by the porchlight. outside
the glow
it’s thick enough to comb with your fingers
and so heavy
that you could hold me down
and drown me.
About DS Maolalai