mix me up a morning
After the bin men left, after each call subsided,
came the scaffolders outside number ten
ringing poles up in peels, building as they went.
Unbearable and balling, eruptions of conversation
(early morning’s first wind)
blew on in over venetian plains,
cocked thin and open for their abysm grins
to escape smiling mouths as they
rang poles up in peels, building for the clouds.
Stopping short at the chimney crown
all their catch up and chatter and, I suppose,
coordinated avoidance tactic, team-building, name-knowing
flanking of their soft boiled love feelings
for their other halves were lost, in part, to
ringing poles up in peels. Building as they went,
Thursday’s scoreline and Friday’s fine-dining plans
found their way to me, asleep, naked from the night.
Their Friday feeling was a nonevent, a lost translation
down the cul-de-sac of singing Poles and three mixers of blast furnace cement.