She sees Milton lurching forward
when his heavy head is on Big O’Eye’s
left shoulder to fix the whole damn
thing up before she becomes a limp,
that delicate-looking gentle barmaid.
Ms Mill who’s just entered the corridor
from the large hall shallows her anger & turns
with hard smile, hard to paint with bright colours,
the sun is dim & rainclouds gather.
Lying crosswise, these trees in the oak wood
after the hurricane & all that’s turning out
to be so serious in the tears welling up,
she picks herself up & scrambles out.
Suddenly, Milton motions us forward with
a commanding gesture, several people are blown
with their noses to sing the recessional.
The fellow resembles her mother
in the colour of her eyes & the way she walks
with a preliminary rumble of rumours,
he walks away, rumbling in the distance.
In the kitchenette from back down the aisle,
she spreads the ginger-bread marked
with Kitemark & ogles before O’Eye
& suddenly she lights the stove
& squats in front of this artifact on the radio
but all she can do is counting her fingers.
“Our Lady, wait a second. Let me finish.
I can’t read & listen at the same time
when I find it hard to begin a new paragraph.”
The candle burns on the bench.
A shadow on the wall ossifies.
It seems plausible, he thinks,
she’s left with a mirror below the surface
of his absence, silence & darkness.
In the small circle room behind them
is filled with shipwrecked men
& a female nurse is in attendance.
She cries, “No! Keep your voice low.”
She wears a T-shirt with a butterfly motif,
her grey eyes are scattered in the room.
A man with his thin black moustache
is winking at her, too far out
of sight to count for the next position,
where a messenger remains sunless.
A dark figure obscures the lighted doorway,
Beth, a waitress wishes she could
stay there forever when her younger brother
is willing to take his day that way,
O’Eye hesitates to open his door,
she completes dressing their wounds.
Buffalo Blue can be heard for miles.
Tethered only by a collar & chain,
snarling the crowd peering at him
through open bars, his trainer
loosens his tie he wears, biting his lips,
his invisible smile on her face surfaces.
Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah, who is an algebraist and artist, works in mixed media. His poems have appeared in numerous journals. He lives in the southern part of Ghana, in Spain, and the Turtle Mountains, North Dakota.