A MISSION NOT COMPLETED

In front of the mirror
In my parents room
Lay a pink conch.
Its opening faced the bed.
They thought they could fool me
But I had seen them adjust it
Each time they locked the door at night
Indispensable sex tool,
Reverberation and reflection
Their only answer
to mutual deafness and blindness
I’ve seen conches in other houses, too.

When ivory white
It blithely roved its ripples
On the soft, sandy bottom, surrounded
By a myriad of blue secrets.
Imprisoned on the dressing table
Its hue disappeared 
Into the pink asphyxiation.
The sound waves
in its chamber
Became sighs and grounds
Not quite of pleasure.
Too much for a conch to handle.

On my parent’s wedding anniversary
And while they were blowing their candles out
In the living room
A sea driven blast
Stormed through the window
The conch smashed
The mirror tottered
Creaked in indecision until
It shattered into a handful of sand
On the fixed mahogany waves.
Nothing was heard outside
Of course




MORE REASONS

Urgent need for provisions

Final destination
Of wise wheels and
Provident legs; the
Ultimate reason for Metro
Doors to slide open and close

Two automatic doors to happiness

The answer to all man’s
Existential agonies. Immersed
In fluoride whiteness and hanging
From the prefabricated roof
Where staff calls parade

Too clean to have a smell

Thirty walls of prosperity
Shelves edge-full, like months
On the verge of sickness
Tins arrayed in military
Order. Imperative, absolute,

And deprived of personality

International peace achieved 
At blocked aisle intersections
No need for trolley traffic lights
“Excuse me, please”
And all the spells are broken

An old lady is looking for her wallet

Whether
	Boredom, exhibitionism, addiction
To the habit, stress, sexual frustration, absence
Of social life, lack of physical exercise, financial
Interest in inflation, torrential rain outside, search
For inspiration, armed robbery,
			Everyone has their
			Reasons for coming in.




IN HER FORTRESS

Her duty of honour hangs
on two intersecting pieces of wood.
My stare rests on her
as she rests 
on a garden of cheap cotton fabric.

Guard

After five pregnancies
that bed
is still an impregnable castle of innocence;
the glaring sun
and the dusty wind
will never penetrate.

For armour
a long, plain, white nightgown.
For shield
a prayer book
the closed lids
are the last stronghold of everything she fights for.

Grey hair, wrinkled neck, black circled eyes
the perfect camouflage.