The man in 119 takes his tea alone. Mornings we all rise to
wireless Verdi cries. I'm hearing opera through the door. The souls
of men and women, impassioned all. Their voices climb and fall;
battle trumpets call. I fill the bath and climb inside, singing.
He will not touch their pastry but every day they bring him
more. Gold from the breakfast tray, I steal them all away and then go
and eat them on the shore.
I draw a jackel-headed woman in the sand, sing of a lover's
fate sealed by jealous hate then wash my hand in the sea. With just
three days more I'd have just about learned the entire scire to Aida.
Holidays must end as you know. All is memory taken home with
me: the opera, the stolen tea, the sand drawing, the verging sea, all
years ago.
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