Tuesday, 24 September 2013

Channeling Jack

Overheard: Barista shouting out an order, three times: Bacon sandwich. Bacon on the side.

Where it took me: At first I thought I’d misheard. How is it a bacon sandwich if the bacon is on the side? But I heard it clearly by the third time he’d shouted it. I’ve been struggling to write for the past week; I just let this one take me wherever the associations led.

The poem

Channeling Jack

Less like a sandwich,
more like a Jack Nicholson bit.
Toast. Which cannot be made 
unless it supports chicken salad.
Between its knees.

It remains unclaimed.
Reminder of nicky nicky nine doors,
of prank phone calls —
Is your refrigerator running?
Well you’d better catch it.
A step up from the riddles we learned
to tell on an endless loop.
How our parents withstood this.

Now it’s fake names for the barista to shout
before he knows he’s been had:
Your Majesty. For my love.
The one where the first name is Mike.
You can figure out the rest.

No comments:

Post a Comment