of crossed forks and knives, napkins
folded half lengthwise and doubled
back on themselves. Somewhere,
among the waiting staff, a spy
with a plastic gun, bullets hidden
in the cistern. Death on every plate.
The punters suckling meat from bone,
oblivious. I am far from home. Snow
smokes up the windows in mid-June,
out of kilter from the sun.
I wear dark clothes, dine alone
incognito. I am Smith, Jakobsen,
Chavez, Jones. My overcoat steams
on the hooks of various fish joints.
A false identity, bait. Somwhere,
among the waiting staff, a spy,
the prey assigned to catch me
catching them. In the end a menu
whispers clues; Ungai, Saba, Tobiko,
a shiver of gold on green tea,
crossed forks, an unpaid bill.
No comments:
Post a Comment