LITMIR.BIZ

      CONTENTS

       RECEPTION

      The Waitress and the Nights of the Round Table

      Colour Blind

      Charlie’s Playing Blackjack

      Invisible Kisses

      Slipping

      Murdering Bill

      Attempted

      Immigration RSVP

      Erratic Equipoise

      Fair

       ONE LEVEL

      The Repossesion: Lot 67

      Baptism in Mire

      Controlled Explosions

      Children’s Home

      Walking in Circles

      My Dad is a Pilot

      Guilt

       LEVEL TWO

      Sandwich Love

      Crowd Control (UK 79–97)

      The Elevator

      A Flock of Sound

      Love & the Blender

      The Graduate and Her Secret Thesis

      The Hand That Feeds Me

      Inner City Out of my Mind

      The Falling of Summer

      A Reading in Stanstead

      The Bruise

      Quiet Places

      Windowstill

       LEVEL FREE

      Mourning Breaks

       THE WAITRESS AND THE NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE

      Each immaculate table a near perfect reflection of the next;

      A ‘40s Hollywood formation dance captured in time –

      In black and white.

      On the mahogany, polished as a morning pond,

      Each tablecloth flapped as swan’s wings

      And each landing perfect.

      She made pieces of butter, intricate

      As the hand-woven curls in a judge’s wig.

      And if not so legal and final

      They’d be a crest of waves

      Caught in yellow sunshine.

      Each serviette a silent smiling signet born in her hands,

      Each flower arranged as if grown for this evening

      Sucks water slowly through the stem and raises its neck.

      They bathe in the light flitting from cut crystal vase

      And stand assertive in centre tables, waiting.

      She picks a speck of dust from a spotless unspeckled carpet.

      Her reflection buckles in the neck of a mercurial fork

      While the solemn red candles wait

      To weep their red tears.

      She pauses as a mother would for a moment

      In the front room, before the visitors arrive,

      In admiration and slight concern

      And bathes in the symmetry and silence

      And the oddness of order -

      Even the tables seem to brace themselves as she left.

      The picture was distorted when she returned from the kitchens.

      A hungry hoard of steak-sawing, wine-guzzling,

      Spirit-sapping, double-breasted suits had grabbed their places.

      They dug their spiked elbows into the wilting backs of tables.

      The tablecloth dripped congealed red wine from its quiet hanging corners

      And the sounds of their grunts, growls, their slurping,

      Their gulping and tearing invaded the hall.

      But a black swan amongst a sea of serrated cutlery, she soared just abov

      And wove a delicate determined ballet inbetween and invisible.

      She walked for miles that evening, balancing platters,

      Pinafore-perfect hair clipped so not to slip.

      The wine warmed and the candles cried.

      In the background of the lashings of laughter –

      The guttural sound of wolves.

      She retrieved a carcass of lamb, poured red,

      And didn’t notice the bloodshot eyes slide over her:

      Nor the claws stretching and puncturing leather brogues;

      Scratching the wooden floor; nor their irritation at her.

      One mauled a mobile phone with a clumsy paw.

      The alcohol-fuelled change was taking hold.

      And together they could be and become who they really were.

      Wolves. Wolves in their pride. Wolves in their pack.

      Their lower jaws had stretched and eyes slitted –

      Some even bayed as wolves, heads flicking side to side,

      Tongues slipping low, slow and deliberately from their mouths

      And curling sensually to their snouts. The wolf has a permanent smile.

      It grew, first half-cough, half-bark. One paw banged on the table,

      Another banged and another and another and another

      Until the whole hall echoed with the unified clatter

      Of the guttural phlegm-flicked word that brought them together

      “Gerni gerni gerni gerni,” they chanted. “Ggerni ggerni ggerni,”

      they chanted faster. “Ggerni Ggerni Ggerni Ggerni,” faster and faster.

      “GgernigGerniggErnigggeRniggerNiggerNiggerNigger”

      She turned to her colleagues who stood by the kitchen entrance

      But their eyes! Their eyes slipped sideways away from her.

      They too were wolves! Her lips parted for her voice and the room hushed itself

      But for the slipping of saliva from their jaws and the flickering candles

      And the dripping of the red wine from the tablecloth.

      As instructed by her manager, she, smiling politely,

      Asked a wolf, “More coffee sir?”

       COLOUR BLIND

      If you can see

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