THREE-BEAN SALAD

three_bean_salad

On Sunday afternoons you’ll find me hunched over the maplewood dining table
consuming a three-bean salad with Crickle Santana and Polly O’Shea
and maybe the Admiral too.

For sure there’ll be ripples of laughter
and vigorous discussions about creepers
all the while we consume a three-bean salad
and a veggie wellington.

For pudding: Cadbury’s Crème Eggs.
Two each.

The soundtrack to Conan the Barbarian will almost certainly be played in its entirety,
ever-so-gently so as not to trick conversation.
Distrust and cruel thoughts will exist in several corners of the room.
Crickle Santana doesn’t like the word ‘veggie’ so we’ll use the word ‘vegetable’.

By 4pm dinner will be over.

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Joggers

jogginh

Wheezing and panting and spluttering I jog.
The sun gives me hog sweats.
Splinters in my toes.
Stabbing in my shins.
Howling in my lungs.
Jogging is supposed to be good for my health
but it doesn’t feel good for my health.

Carbon-rubber soles bounce off pavement
bounce off road
bounce off chewing gum
bounce off discarded packs of Frazzles
bounce off discarded condoms
bounce off discarded nappies.
Jogging is supposed to be good for my health
but it doesn’t feel good for my health.

I jog from Pelham Road to Palmerston Road.
I jog from Kingston Road to Balfour Road.
I jog from Griffiths Road to Ridley Road.
Slower now
but still I jog.

A seagull with a broken wing.
Still I jog.
A crashed car.
Still I jog.
A man with blood on his face and no top on
and a knife in his hand.
Still I jog.
The man with the knife jogs alongside me.
“Didn’t happen to see a seagull with a broken wing did ya mate?” says the man with the knife.
I shake my head.
My mouth is so dry I can no longer speak.
The man with the knife jogs in a different direction.

Wheezing and panting and spluttering I jog.
Jogging is supposed to be good for my health
but it doesn’t feel good for my health.