He tells everyone he can take it
in his stride - a conference call interview with
the dean, the HOD, an associate prof
and sundry underlings - then
betrays himself in the night
dreaming of himself naked and drunk
at a cocktail party
brushing his sweaty frame against
silk dresses and Italian suits
only to find Rufus his favourite dog,
a golden retriever dead sixteen years,
dirty and dusty, broken of
spirit and one leg, crouching
on the verandah like a wounded waif ...
The phone rings.
He clears his throat and answers.
It's the panel. They are a desert away
and he is hungover from his dream.
The interview staggers between
history and logic, ethics and practice.
'Well, thank you for giving us your time,'
the dean politely finishes. 'Human resources
will contact you in
the near future.' And, like a Greek chorus
of kookaburras, the panelists
(five) all chirp their goodbyes.
He laughs and hangs up. A roasted almond
is small reward but his diet
won't take more. The mail delivers
new bills and glossy junk mail.
His grand-daughter wants
'old peoples' programmes on TV.
He laughs and hangs on to
her freshness, her energy.
--
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/aburke/
|