INDECENCY

           

           But what was lunch my amnesiac tongue can't tell and earned                
           His chalk-pale waitress (from Iraq, he told me) a large tip
           – Which she raised her eyebrows at, as though it couldn’t exist.
           This contempt impressed me and on impulse i asked her if
           She knew of a young visual artist, Stewart Galenza:
           Perhaps she might have heard of him in a nightclub somewhere?

                     She frowned, raising her eyes for Heaven’s assistance, 
           And Heaven rescued her through the agency of her boss
           Who had overheard my question.   Tell me, he said, looming,
           Why you want to know?     You be private detective, mister?

                                                *

           – No no no no no,  I assured him, but, I couldn’t help 
          Laughing  – in a way, yes.
                                         – Well, he said, you be or be not?
          That’s still the question, I joked, but the prince was not amused.

                                                *

          The waitress, relieved that her boss had taken over, backed
          Away from us as though she were taking leave of the Queen,
          A submissive look marring her pointedly proud features
          That, for a moment, distracted me from her boss’s new
          Quasi-belligerent if not paranoid attitude
          Of humourlessness bordering on utter resentment.
          It was my turn to wonder why about his asking why.

         (from “fatima solagua arterra’s nudes” by Brian Chan)