Under the Golden Arches
Waiting. A lone post against a river of people
in pre-set directions, forever flowing – for now.
Waiting. Wandering what the voice of the phone
will manifest as. Surprising or satisfying?
As thoughts like this tussle for attention,
fanciful creations of the stranger are made in my mind;
descending from pure white clouds on wings of unspoken beauty,
leaving an ivory tower atop rolling hills of marshmallow
in the sky to meet me today.
These images of hopeful anticipation bounce excitedly
in my mind’s eye,
full of phantasm – all false.
Nerves turn to apprehensive fear,
fretting as the meeting time falls near.
Corner of Thornton’s gets colder.
Conversations on the phone from the past week,
now left bitter in my mouth, taste weak.
Scanning the horizon of the sea of faces,
What if she looks like her?
I could live with that.
Or her?
Hope not.
But this passing comparison locks my eyes in target,
gentle smile in earnest on approach.
Doubts raise questions; masked by a simple smile of my own,
mixed with surreptitious sideway glances.
Too late I turn, pretending to ignore
but a vibrating phone pocket tells all.
“Look behind you.”
Awkward greeting met with eager reciprocation.
On both our minds – anticipation.
Mindless chat leading up to what we discussed but now not dare.
When it comes to it,
constant doubt and fear reign.
Romantic seclusion in a famous fast food outlet.
An unsavoury meal,
taste dulled by the doors adorned with the girl in the triangle dress,
adjacent to the man with the bald head.
Somehow, sometime, suggestions switch to real.
Suddenly trapped and close.
Through the door.
Beneath the golden arches.
Seconds expand to minutes.
Stopped in their growth further in the lacking space.
Constricting walls.
They surround and judge the act within,
peering with looming frowns like the rhyming clown
that plays mascot to this place.
Plastic words dribble from her mouth.
Magnetised to my own.
Scarlet on skin.
Drips of supressed whispers are sweated out from blocked pores.
Aggravating laws.
Dead breath hovers and warms cold white
turning red and maybe more.
Stop.
Retreat back to the table.
Unoiled movements.
New connection constructed.
A contract signed, a death warrant.
in pre-set directions, forever flowing – for now.
Waiting. Wandering what the voice of the phone
will manifest as. Surprising or satisfying?
As thoughts like this tussle for attention,
fanciful creations of the stranger are made in my mind;
descending from pure white clouds on wings of unspoken beauty,
leaving an ivory tower atop rolling hills of marshmallow
in the sky to meet me today.
These images of hopeful anticipation bounce excitedly
in my mind’s eye,
full of phantasm – all false.
Nerves turn to apprehensive fear,
fretting as the meeting time falls near.
Corner of Thornton’s gets colder.
Conversations on the phone from the past week,
now left bitter in my mouth, taste weak.
Scanning the horizon of the sea of faces,
What if she looks like her?
I could live with that.
Or her?
Hope not.
But this passing comparison locks my eyes in target,
gentle smile in earnest on approach.
Doubts raise questions; masked by a simple smile of my own,
mixed with surreptitious sideway glances.
Too late I turn, pretending to ignore
but a vibrating phone pocket tells all.
“Look behind you.”
Awkward greeting met with eager reciprocation.
On both our minds – anticipation.
Mindless chat leading up to what we discussed but now not dare.
When it comes to it,
constant doubt and fear reign.
Romantic seclusion in a famous fast food outlet.
An unsavoury meal,
taste dulled by the doors adorned with the girl in the triangle dress,
adjacent to the man with the bald head.
Somehow, sometime, suggestions switch to real.
Suddenly trapped and close.
Through the door.
Beneath the golden arches.
Seconds expand to minutes.
Stopped in their growth further in the lacking space.
Constricting walls.
They surround and judge the act within,
peering with looming frowns like the rhyming clown
that plays mascot to this place.
Plastic words dribble from her mouth.
Magnetised to my own.
Scarlet on skin.
Drips of supressed whispers are sweated out from blocked pores.
Aggravating laws.
Dead breath hovers and warms cold white
turning red and maybe more.
Stop.
Retreat back to the table.
Unoiled movements.
New connection constructed.
A contract signed, a death warrant.