notesfromthewaitingroom

I’m in free fall,

Recoiling back through the years,

Reversing back down city-streets and moorland-valleys,

Retreating from various hypotheses and bifurcations,

Shunning burning-pits and blissful-heights alike

Until I land lightly on my feet.

I’m a cool twenty again,

Young, green and full of hope.

Annaba: my first job.

Skulking behind grey filing-cabinets

Yearning for her black hair, olive skin

And flashing almond-eyes.

We exchange averted glances,

But it’s just not on, old sport

Off limits, out-of-bounds

Strictly verboten.

Have to leave an hour early today,

J’ai Cour d’Arabe she explains,

Newly liberated from the hated French,

She’s being Arabised.

That’s cool, I think,

Chukran, baby.