$2 falafel 22.08.00
a treasure chest of tailored variety
ageing paint peels away from the overhead fan
the best food for a fraction of the price
warm red tiles suppoet the stream of visitors
and the public phone greets those who dare to enter,
the temptation never to leave almost shouts
a table of devoured merchandise sits stranded
crying out for a hand to clear
if only it could be graced by traditional clientele
variety abounds all over
the music is powerful - a collage of metal against
utensils, formulated chatter and balti whining
the slim rustle of wax paper amounts to a crescendo
and then silences itself
stationary disco lights entertain the upward eyes
lanterns uplift the warm air scented
with comforting familiarity
minds change with the engrossing smell of
warmed pitta and fired meat
the falafel falls softly in my stomach
i am satisfied in more ways than one.
writing out poetry you haven't visited for a long time is strange. there is a fierce desire to make changes and adjustments and re-working but also an opposing strength which wants the moment to stay the same and so not change anything. i remeber learning at school in english class that some poet (can't remember who) always locked poems away for years before re-visiting them and making changes, only to lock them away again and go through the process all over. that is definitely not me. i think any poetry i write is about the moment and restoring a memory to me - mayeb like some crazy revision notes or something. he above poem takes me back to mamoons falafel bar in new york in an instant and i love that about it.
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