Anything you say or do can be used against you.
The mornings introduce themselves
like a waiter living off tips
like a feature film
(a dramatic good-cop bad-copy slow-paced thriller)
– otherwise indistinct from the previews and last minute phone call in the foyer –
like a trumpeter testing a borrowed horn.
And though
“although”
I come here every day
(tautology masquerading as devotion)
I forget everyone’s name
and face
and what I like to eat
and whether the bad guys get away.
“I’m sorry I’m bad with names and
faces and
tastes and
fates.“
I never pick up the menu
just announce
rehearsed without end in my head
that I am allergic to
gluten
and nuts
and pain.
“We don’t serve pain here,”
They always say!
And I know that they are lying
because the surtitles below the silent figure say *snigger*
and the kitchen answers with a trumpet and drumkit
and my face gets all red.
I applied for a job once
“I play the drums
practise for six hours every Tuesday while I wait
for my favourite show
on tv.”
Manager wanted to know which one,
which is when I get caught
by the feds
who are wanting me for charges, including
larceny
(or was it mockery?)
which is a stroke of luck
because I wouldn’t know a quaver
from a qualm.
When they put me in the back of the van I make sure to
touch on
because I’m in enough trouble
without being called
a freedom fighter
or frequent flier
or freeloading fart
(and I ate beans for breakfast, alas, too,
hearsay overruled).
Do I know what I’m here for?
I sniff my knickers and
undershirt and
the circle of flattened hair underneath the constable’s wristwatch.
“I can get you a case of those for thirty dollars a pop.”
We dance around numbers and issues of trust
until he admits
“No thank you, this one was a gift from the troop.”
He’s retiring today.
My luck holds
till 4 o’clock
which was forty minutes ago
which was when his shift forever ended
which was when I should have stopped.
Don’t insult a man’s mother
“I bet your mum likes to play with that baton.”
His mum was the same grey-haired blonde
as had offered me the stolen time
(watches, coins for parking meters, and calendars by the month)
as had offered her son a family-discount.
The hereditary liar was not retiring:
What coiled mortal coils we both were!
The mime (from the previous scene) mimed
opening the door
(and against all definitions I’d been taught)
asked
aloud
“Will that be all?”
“More bread,”
said the Sergeant,
which was the start of our friendship
because we were both gluten-free
and quite sensitive
to pain.
“What a morning!”
I announced to no effect
because
quite
suddenly
my
alarm alarmed
alarming me too, and
causing the waiter to grin
and the kitchen orchestra to orchestrate.
4 stars out of 5 (average 2.0). Good price poor service.
