SATURDAY NIGHTS AND SUNDAY MORNINGS

On the jarring radio, a familiar tune,

A single ice-cube in the month of June,

A glimpse of the stars on tired nights

The refreshing window, the fatigue of the fights.

The desperate wait, to hear a voice on the line,

Trying out, once again, harmonics for ‘summer wine’

Impatient fingers on a dusty remote,

Guessing what went wrong with the last email I wrote.

Canned laughter, in the Polish joke book,

Kasparov’s manoevre with the white rook,

The mind has had enough, I turn off the light –

The newsreader smiles, and wishes – ‘ good night’.

Swear words flow naturally as the alarm clock screams

And Pamela Lee leaves my wet dream

The disheveled pillow, the hard and heavy head,

The drag to the basin, the feel of the blade.

Cornflakes and milk and the Sunday Telegraph –

Lockhorns and Beaupeep and the routine hollow laugh.

Children play cricket in the narrow by-lane

The diaries and albums are dusted again.

The rocking armchairs and the enervating saxophone,

Speakers are set low, the eye is on the phone,

The ring comes like a wail – from a long and dreary slumber.

And I answer – “hullo! No …sorry….wrong number.”