Bus Stop

The highway stretches to infinity
dividing the desert in half. The rain
slowly converts the wilderness to marsh.
The sun sets. Fluorescent lamps come on,

reveal an iron corrugated sheet
held in place by four metal posts. Below,
a bench plastered with bills that advertise
Holistic Healing Services, Lose Weight

While Sleeping, Cure Venereal Disease
Discreetly. Two men huddle for the warmth
the other's touch imparts (the bench and breeze
are cold). One rolls a joint and it is passed

between them as they pull a weathered scarf
across their furrowed foreheads as defence
against betrayal by a leaky roof.
They look out for the seven o'clock bus.

One checks his watch. It's eight, he says. They wait.

Haiku

There are times when an
imaginary lover's
simply not enough.

Second-hand bookshop
in the alley wall: inter-
galactic pathway?

A guardian angel!
I need my guardian angel!
Where is he/she?

(Electoral Haiku)
I'm afraid we all
misunderestimated
George W. Bush.

Ghazal

Your voice fades out of earshot. Then I die.
I hear the chirping of the wren. I die.

I fear your letter will get no reply.
My hand can no more wield the pen, I die.

Your black-brown eyes are dictatorial.
Again you look away, again I die.

Why did I trust you so? Now all alone
and naked in the lion's den, I die.

Sundays I sit and plan my funeral
and wonder if you'll be there when I die.

They said there was a half-chance I'd survive.
But like a thousand other men, I die.

Three wires: red, blue, green. I cut the red.
A timer. On the count of ten, I die.

Love

Inside the old Walled City, past
the rusted sign hung on its gate
that says '... the rebels' heads were cut
and mounted on the minaret

of Faithfuls' Mosque...'; past Weavers Lane
where weavers weaving, as they mourn
the sad decline of weaving, 'Scene
from the Second Rebellion' on

scarves to be sold as 'ethnic chic'
to foreign tourists, wheeze and sneeze
unsubtly; past Old Factory Street
where fired factory employees

wait to inspect the Classified
ads in the evening papers, stand
defiant at the 'Mag_zine Stand'
where vendors peddle second-hand

Das Capitals, some tattered Mills
& Boonses (soon a swarm of girls
descends and haggles for good deals
on 'Special Digest: When Love Calls');

outside the House of Ill Repute,
a fallen woman presses her
rebellious daughter to her heart
and takes her back inside.

The Dying Days of Disco

He scales the warehouse wall, unscrews the neon sign
Inviting seekers of bohemia in to dance
The hopeless night away in ecstasy and wine
And pulls down one by one the letters that spelt Trance,
Eternal Love, Infinite Joy, Delight,
Rock, Roll, and Boogie The Entire Night.

President

Cold feet? – he asks – It's normal. She
does not reply. She feels
her belt, reminds
herself
of where
the button is.
He says: together, at
the count of three. One, two, three. Now.