Eighth Day Café
I expect Dominic Berry to echo from the walls,
to be reflected in the tables
’s Premier gay, vegan poet. Manchester
There was a time Dom was at every event
I stood and quivered at,
and I wish I bought a ticket for “Wizard”.
I miss him with his overblown actions,
his genuine pleasure at seeing a familiar face.
I wish I was one of the appreciative horde
singing his praises for once.
As I taste the faint lentil
of Aduki beans in my tomato soup
I hear him recite “Tomorrow, I WILL go dancing”
and I have my Dominic fix
My chlorine hair and my resolve to eat well
after a kilometre breast-stroke
bring me to this place
like a friendly, sparsely-lit school canteen.
I write with water-wrinkled fingers
under the table,
watch as people at the tables interact in the old way.
A “student” reading text highlighted with orange marker
to match his hair and the patches on his jumper
that I suspect are not a fashion statement.
As I finish my beetroot and hummus roll
and drain my organic apple juice
I crave sex, chocolate and deep-fried chicken
am tempted to upturn the sea-salt onto my tongue,
stuff my mouth with butter pats.
I crave the kerdinck of Twitter and BBM.
A noisy, dancing group of eight staff
enjoy a group hug and their smiles
I leave carrying a smile
and faint scent of Aduki beans
to St Peter’s Square tram-stop
Sarah L Dixon NaPoWriMo - Day 12 Senses poem