Waiting in the waiting room
the chairs stick together
the walls closing. Tart, small voices are heard next-door, the end of the Friday night radio-show, witticisms and innuendo and loud, captive laughter.
Finally, applause disintegrates that room,
other strident voices are raised.
That's when she pops her head in
'hello,' she says
and you smirk
following her professional secret through the doors,
you see the light, the sofa, the long curtains,
the quiet, wide walls. You won’t be like them, you won’t perform. The walls wait, the door closes, you shrug your shoulders and speak of him with the other name.
A radio plays on in the waiting room.
From 'Exhibition People'
An Exhibition The War Museum came of age it was said with an exhibition on the power of protest. At the door a woman from a temp agency stands for six hours checking tickets at £8.50 an hour and a lunch break. It would be bad customer service to sit down, she was told. You can doggy paddle, but do not drown. As time sheds its grey, merciful flakes something beats beneath. Then, she’ll let the noose of her thoughts settle on her neck, feeling its strength as she makes loops from ticket stubs. It’s called Irony she told wandering visitors. From 'Exhibition People'
I threw my net out to evening sky. The moon circled. The eyes of houses, a lost brother, laughter, in the air. I trailed my fingers on bricks felt grains under my feet followed the turns of the road. I reached for an olive tree, in the middle of a pond. I heard my mother, sing a song and when I sought her face I found only a black cat.