In Kensington, at Amadeu’s
someone is smoking a rank cigar
The ferocious sun illuminates our ugliness: tap water is served in chintzy
Wine glasses with one, wan, cube of ice.
Behind us, a guy in this summer’s
straw hat, pressed shorts and crisp blouse
Goes through his girlfriend’s phone
and remarks on her pictures:
Christ, you look FAT here, he says. And, Look at this one, you look like you have a pig’s head.
I know, she says, I know.
Listen, he says. Never pose above a camera: you’ll look like you have ten chins.
Oh fuck, this one! —
My friend and I left without ordering and found that dive with baby-doll
Heads on the draught pulls
As he beat me at table-hockey I remembered another friend’s story about
Former Maple Leaf, Doug Gilmour.
He lived next door to him; the walls were thin.
Gilmour and his wife Amy were fighting, and it got ugly.
You fat cunt! he said.
And Amy said, tearfully, I’m not fat!
This is what the guy heard, something like filthy cheroot smoke on a shit-hot day,
Rising like sulphur and robbing the girls of their sweet smells,
Perfume, lotion. Pussy.