last sitting at table 58
last sitting at table 58 – threadbare carpet hotel breakfast
‘té? café? sir? madam?’
‘is there marmalade?’
‘I fetch you mermelada’
‘and a spoon for my muesli’
‘I fetch you, cuchara, madam’
‘no, ‘spoon’, I said’
porridge is being ladled and admired
‘the Scots spell porridge ‘porage’’
‘I didn’t know that’
‘I have five prunes in mine each morning’
‘prunes eh? I think I’ll join you’
‘prunes are good for the stool’
‘I didn’t know that’
my designated commensal is absent
I can’t recall his name
he claims a dry sense of humour
‘but not many people get my jokes’
it occurs that he might have died overnight
I won’t miss him nor his conversation
his porridge-brain philosophies
his rattling teeth
he’s never heard of fixative?
he said he was political
proud at always voting Labour
or
was it Tory?
I won’t miss his toast crumbs splattering the table
and his slurping ‘aahs’ at tomato soup or breakfast tea
‘té? senor?’
‘a cup of tea? smashing’
the waiter pours a coffee
I sigh ‘thanks’ to a vanishing back
‘té? café? sir? madam?’
‘do you have lime marmalade?
‘lima mermelada? lo siento, senora’
mine is the window table
at my back a shuffle of plate-loaders
at the toaster bottleneck
erupts into angry muttering
a plate smashes
someone swears
someone cheers
someone tuts
‘no use moaning over spilled beans’
somewhere in the glooming
wondrous Scotland is waiting
a prowling matelot shirt sidles up
seeking a partner in misery, asks,
‘how did you sleep?’
(like a baby but she doesn’t want to hear that)
I lie, ‘terrible, I hardly slept at all’
‘could you hear that generator?’
I lie again, ‘yes it kept me up all night’
‘you as well? I’m changing my room, you should too’
‘té? café? sir? madam?’
‘is there marmalade?’
‘I fetch you mermelada’
‘and a spoon for my muesli’
‘I fetch you, cuchara, madam’
at every table couples grown fat, comfortable,
and grey together, sit together,
discussing omelettes
except table 58
the one with the view of nothing much
which I share with some guy from nowhere
with a dry sense of humour
who didn’t make it to breakfast –
I hope he died overnight
choking on his dentures
in the half-light
a ‘private ambulance’ noses the gravel
I tap on my window
‘room for one more?’
Ch, This is a gloomy piece but threaded through with self effacing humour which adds up to a poem unhappy with its existentialism, but perversely thoroughly in the moment.
Enjoyed it much.
Bhi
Thanks, Bhi – yes it is gloomy it was written while I was on a trip to reawaken some positivity having been sent the most disgusting disparaging email I ever received from a poet (I thought he was a friend) – I’m used to criticism but this bordered on hate-mail. So I was in an Eliotesque ‘Margate Beach’ state – unhelped by the sheer suburban banality around me – quite the best thing about the hotel was the half eaten, mouse nibbled Kit Kat stick I found under under my pillow. The italicised parts are a nudge towards the Wasteland… Read more »
I remember this one, Rick. It certainly brought back some memories of some shitty hotels I stayed in on my travels. I remember once staying in a third class hotel and it was full with people on a coach trip. I was glad I wasn’t on it when I saw the driver tanking it in the bar that night. (I won’t say the company, but their buses were blue)
Good one!
I was on a National Coach trip – I booked for a further holiday in July but thankfully they went bust – I didn’t get my money back – paid cash for once (foolish) but in retrospect I reckon it was worth losing the money for my mental equilibrium (such as it is) 🙂