Book of poems: King Jane Germany
Jesus in a toast
A contemporary poem identifying (and applauding?) a weird form of entropic ‘suicide’
--
He said he was coming to London for
‘about a week’, but let’s call it 5 or
6 days. He is on his way to Paris, but
a stop-off in London is important to
him, as he had never been
here/there before.
He tells me he is coming on Monday,
but will probably have to leave early
on Friday. I work that out at roughly
3 days, not nearly 5.
So he arrives late Monday evening,
and says that early Tuesday he will
need to go to a travel agent and get
some documents for cheap train fares
in Europe. He stresses he will get it
all out of the way ‘first thing’, then
we can meet up and plan how
best to spend the rest of his time.
But the travelling to get here has
worn him out and he is struggling
to stay awake, with his eyes starting
to close if I begin anything involving
more demanding than the emptiest
of small talk. He also has some calls
to make back at his hotel.
He gets up late Tuesday morning, and
only reaches the agent he has chosen –
or was told to contact — around noon.
The girl he especially needs to see is out
of the office. He waits. She returns,
but it takes some time to sort out
the exact documents and tickets
he needs. Key bits will still have to
arrive from elsewhere by courier
the following morning. Then
he asks her casually for ‘advice’ on
what to do and see in London, and
they discuss things until mid-afternoon,
when he suddenly remembers he
has forgotten to eat, and so leaves
to go to a nearby McDonalds.
He calls me around 5, and we meet at 7,
and then spend a few hours together
in a pub, trying to decide where
we should go. The beers soon sap…
