Untitled Document

The Leather Chair

He’s inside that house, the one
with a thorn bush of aerials
pouring rust down the chimney.

Mosquitoes unfold from gutters.
Pigeons splash their feathers filthy.
The cost of land has doubled—

a generation waits in their
parents’ kitchens, wait in
damp hallways for phone calls.

I see his house and know
he’s sat in that leather chair
listening to birds cleaning

beaks on the aerials, brushing
mosquitoes from his face
his hair wet with rising heat.

I drive past and wonder if he’s ill,
has left, is dead, now lives
in the city beyond the bridge.

I look up and birds roasting on
aerial spikes take up the television’s
rumble, blood shakes their tiny hearts.

The windscreen is yellow, red
with mosquitoes. I turn on wipers,
brush sweat from my head.

Crossing bridges over new canals
I reach the last island—
Storks lift from the mustard river.