Werewolf in Nuwara Eliya

Werewolf in Nuwara Eliya

That night in Nuwara Eliya
when Dom and I stumbled
into the Grand, we had just re-met
and every moment was precious.
It took us ten minutes to find the bar.
It was cold for Nuwara Eliya and we
needed a drink, desperately.
A single malt for Dom and a Port
for me. This was in 1993.

I turned towards the barman to place our order
and stopped, shocked. Next to us was the most
extraordinary man I had ever seen, he was about
7ft tall. He had pointed ears nearly as large as his head
a beard that tapered to 30 degrees
his sideburns, thick, wide, reached
his mouth.
A sweet smile. It was disconcerting.
Basically, your friendly neighborhood werewolf.

He bought us a round of drinks and
seemed very glad to meet us.
We drank with him.
and must have chatted
he was from Northern England.
We said our goodbyes

Staggered outside into a sea
of mist. It was midnight
the moon was full.
Shining bright with light
to show us the way
to the car-
we drunkenly
drove the windy
road back to the club.

Quietly distressed by the
meeting of the man
who looked like a wolf.

29.5.2017

 

Sweater Weather

Sweater Weather

 
Short days in Michigan
the leaves colors
reminds me of the hills
in that faraway island during the
dry season – the red earth
hot underfoot, crackles
as the leaves drop
making a mound
Smoothies drunk in a café
contain this richness
The liquid slides down
the throat and a coat is buttoned
Outside the air freezes
Smoke blows from the mouth
Cigarette tossed on the ground

The old man mowing his lawn
Wearing his slate cashmere V-neck
holes under the arms,
has never bothered
to get the thing darned.
It is the season to shoot
Gun in hand, A-k47 in another
Looking for Rabbit, Deer, Bear.

Billy wears a brown, round, wool neck sweater
that keeps him warm.
and camouflages him well.
No-one mentions the time he was at
The creek – a body floated up, face down –
bloated and gross from
being in the river for over a week.
The sheriff hushed It up,
Billy was his son, you see.

The Sheriff wore a red wool sweater
A Cary Grant look alike
The people of his County respected him.
The sole reason the body story was
Buried. His word was final.

Autumn in Michigan, meant road trips—a six pack of
Molson in the car; Reuben sandwiches, girlfriends.
We’d sing to Joni Mitchell and Carol King—
perfect tunes for a fall sunset
that seemed to last forever. At night, Deborah Harry
blasted from the CD deck the stars shining brightly.

she wore her purple sweater, made of Angora.
It smelled of perfume: Opium.
Then! San Francisco the golden gate bridge
Swinging in the setting sun
Cars in lines drivers behaving
Even though cars had stopped altogether.
No military that we could see
We drove to Full Moon Beach.
Threw our sweater’s off
And with it our youthful emotional angst
The water was cold.
We could very well had been swimming in
Lake Michigan—

Except for the unforgettable Road Trip.
2261 miles of it.

 

Machine I loved

Machine I loved

A low slung Volks
turbo charged, fast
(naturally)
did 130 miles on
the Arugumbay
Moneragala road
“A poor man’s porsche’
my friend said.
Leonard Cohen crooning
as we looked
at the mountains
whizzing by
light poured in
the driver seat
comfortable enough to
race in.
I down shifted to third
then, back to fourth, fifth
as we turned the corner
on two wheels
the car did a one eighty
and smashed against
the hillside
we poured out
stunned, bruised, bleeding
we were ok
the car ok, too
German engineering
I thought
I loved this car
I was biased
Thank god we weren’t
driving the Prius.

NS FEB 13, 2017