play kick-about beyond those houses.
A row, then a row, another row,
and then the pitch. Their whistle, above all,
man who lives opposite is a strip-o-gram.
He eats alone. That or an actual air-steward.
I watch people leaving I never saw arrive,
people arriving who never seem to leave.
Frenchman works in a bagel shop.
Cucumber, ham hock, Monterey Jack.
A CCTV camera watches all this
but because of cuts
day on the tape wipes
over the last. That’s
not true. But how many times
do you need to walk a dog
if the dog’s legs are so long,
the distance so.
Once. Emphatically. Once.
I’ve learnt something about the air-steward.
He always blesses himself
after the seat-belt signs
are switched off
surely that’s far too late. But maybe
what he’s grateful for is neither here
nor there. Has nothing—absolutely nothing—to do
with the Frenchman, the flight.