by Nicola Vulpe

THE BENCH OPPOSITE

for Ken Smith (1938 – 2003)

I AWOKE WITH A START. On the bench opposite,
a woman asleep, in her arms an infant.

I’m on a train, the landscape
clattering by all wrong, the trees
not real trees. Short, scrubby things.

Suddenly, a village. But the doors
on the houses not as doors should be,
and the roofs not proper roof colours.

On the window, a chipped sticker,
the international No Smoking symbol,
and something else, mysterious, also forbidden.

And a long explanation below,
in a language I’ve not seen before,
all vowels and diacritics. Footsteps.

In a cloud of foreign tobacco
the conductor steps in, says something,
presumably also all vowels and diacritics.

And the woman on the seat opposite, yawning,
points to those three tickets in my left hand.

NICOLA VULPE considers poetry an unfortunate habit and doesn’t get out much with the literati. He has nonetheless published three collections of poetry, When the Mongols Return, Blue Tile, and Insult to the Brain; a novella, The Extraordinary Event of Pia H.; and essays and articles on subjects as diverse as the Epic of Gilgamesh and the afterlife of Norman Bethune.

 

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