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Some More Things You Do Not Know About Me Today I stayed the day in my pink pyjamas. Night is now about to fall and catch me with them on. I uttered not one word. I wrote a poem. I brewed builders tea deconstructed a recipe spilled soup on the pilot light; did a basin of hand washing, said nothing. Yesterday I declined to return a smile from a socialite. I did not plastic-smile back nor swap dry biscuit remarks. Did not kiss the air all furious. One opportunity missed. Nothing, alas, to be done about it. I value my silent days. In the ground of my being I have raised a small one-room wattle and daub hermitage. Here I am a solitary weeper till friend Father Louis comes. We choir he sings lead he was a cantor I cant. He’d laugh at that, rolling guffaw of a holy fool laugh. 142
page 155
Laugh at the one whose dime dinged a phone to screech: ‘What more could you possibly want?’ And I was so in want then. But – thanks to the Friend – what do I lack? now love brims in my atom cups from which I drink toasts and give thanks as I turn my thoughts to our evening dinner of rice and fish. Rumi insists that is one way God’s Love looks. My sweetlove approaches; he unseals my mouth with kisses. 143

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Some More Things You Do Not Know About Me

Today I stayed the day in my pink pyjamas. Night is now about to fall and catch me with them on.

I uttered not one word. I wrote a poem.

I brewed builders tea deconstructed a recipe spilled soup on the pilot light; did a basin of hand washing,

said nothing.

Yesterday I declined to return a smile from a socialite. I did not plastic-smile back nor swap dry biscuit remarks.

Did not kiss the air all furious.

One opportunity missed.

Nothing, alas, to be done about it.

I value my silent days. In the ground of my being I have raised a small one-room wattle and daub hermitage.

Here I am a solitary weeper till friend Father Louis comes. We choir he sings lead he was a cantor I cant.

He’d laugh at that, rolling guffaw of a holy fool laugh.

142

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