The first ficcione, for Martin Edmond
Discussed construction sites
all morning. In the
afternoon was overwhelmed
by the temples we intend
to demolish. First time
I’d seen them. Lost track
of time. Now the last ferry
has left, the hotel is full. I know
of nowhere else to stay. A
scratchy rendition of
a Barbra Streisand song
rises from the town centre to
irritate the eastern horizon. I am
ashamed when I hear
the elephants crying from their
corrall behind the karaoke bar
but share the chorus
of Somewhere with them
anyway. It’s comforting to
pretend you’re not alone. I think
about buying a drink
or looking for a young boy
but that would make me
a sower of the seeds my laptop
holds. Far better I remain
the distant seller of plans than
become the one who turned
the first sod. I walk to the
waterfront to wait for the wind
to start blowing off the sea.
It will be cooler there. Then.
© Mark Young
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