Mullet

Poem

Mullet

His head pounds, the walls dance.

Can he hear the felling of timbers?

Time has flowed from the first beer

to his stupored awakening

without his knowledge.

He creeps to the kitchen.

 

Sophia is preparing food

with timber ladles in a wooden bowl.

His wife eyes him and turns away.

No words are uttered or needed.

Light floods in through the open door.

He turns his eyes and sits.

 

She demands to know the day.

He has no answer nor understands

why she needs to know.

She wants something special.

She talks of Sergios, fishing,

out on his boat.

 

He feels the walls along the street.

They are dancing less now, firming up.

On a bench by the harbour

he dozes a little and then watches

the tiny shape of Sergios and his boat

as it ‘pot pot’s in and anchors up. They wave.

 

Sergios asks about his night.

Tells him to recall the day

for his own well being.

A flash of memory hits a spot.

His brain recommences functions.

Her birthday.

 

Sergios holds up his catch.

Mullet, he says,

fresh this morning.

Sophia loves red mullet he says,

wraps the fish and refuses cash.

There are other ways of paying.

 

He feels lighter as he climbs back home.

And before he’s reached his door

his brain has woken well enough  

to ponder how Sergios knew

his wife loved mullet

and how she knew his morning plans.

Michael R Chapman
~ master of none ~