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David Chorlton

Lowry

Mirages were few

in Manchester

where rain

washed away the light

but once

I thought I saw

the painter, Lowry,

in a stained brown coat

and his trilby hat

near Piccadilly Gardens.

He was just

becoming famous

for depicting

the monotony around us

in browns and greys

that shone briefly

after showers.

I felt sure it had been him

with the bulbous nose

and eyes

without imagination

that saw exactly

what was there

and added nothing.

I could have spoken to him

to be sure of his identity

and asked him for

an autograph

but as I stared at him

taking notes, I understood

that Lowry didn't want

to change a dismal thing, that

he was not real,

he was happy.

Eating in Calabria

We are two strangers in a village

that rarely sees them,

sitting down

in the only open restaurant

after arriving

on the last train of the day.

The young men at the table next to ours

laugh into their hands

as they watch us prod the olives

on our salad plates

and hold transparent pecorino slices

to the light. This is not the meal

we wanted, with nothing warm

so close to midnight. With a smile

as crooked as the coastline

one of the villagers brings a napkin

cradling bright red peppers.

We know what he is saying

in the silence

of his outspread palm, so I bite

into the offering

that scars my foreign taste buds.

My friend does the same

and passing the test

we enter the country again, eat

and drink a language

nine parts sound

and one part fire.

[Index]

Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005