I proffer this one up for discussionm - a second draft, so not even set in
wet cement yet.
*Coffee at Gloria Jean's*
'Keith the Butcher is better suited
to conduct my funeral than
Father Fahey,' Frank said in Gloria Jean's,
the shopping centre café, coffee tasting
of burnt tar, chocolate chip muffin
crumbling on his off-white face.
Mock-colonial windows framed smiling
consumers sitting down to relieve aching backs
and knotted varicose veins. 'None
of that God stuff as they send me off,
mate. Dead's dead, that's it.'
I fore went a second cup, threaded
my fingers through
plastic hoops of supermarket
bags, and stood to go. 'See ya, mate,'
I said. 'Not if I see you first,' Frank retorted
in place of wit. I waved
a loose finger and headed for the car park,
mentally ticking off the list as I went. Fingertips
reddened and white welts pulsed as I
propped the shopping against the back bumper,
clicked unlock on the key and threw open
the boot, thinking of the metaphors
of everyday, the cryptic lyricism of
an ancient tongue wriggling in the minds
of late capitalist man. 'Hot enough
for you?' said the woman from
next door with Magic Happens on her back window.
'Sure is,' I smiled, surfacing
from my reverie and dropping the boot.
--
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
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