That Kind of Day

The kind of day
in which I sit
at a streetside cafe -
and watch the world standing still
while I wonder, which will arrive first -
Cappucino?
Judgment Day?

That kind of day
in which I look
at the way
my reflection looks
in the steel lining a neo-cool eatery,
reintroducing me to who I am -
How the edges of me
are not sharp.
How my eyes are larger
than pretty.
How my nose throws dark
shadows, ignoring symmetry.


And how I sip at solitude,
fending off bitterness with a cappucino.

That kind of day
in which I can trace
all I cannot say
in the crows-feet round a stranger's eyes;
in which I can tell all those lies
that fill tiny empty spaces
between the larger empty spaces
of colossal truths,
that - if told - will not endear me
to anybody.

That kind of day
in which I sleep
the sleep of those who stay
in a house made for books -
broken into by too much insight,
lit by the compulsions of a sense of humour,
of those who get into a fright
in the early morning,
with their faces staring
back,
through the bookshelves.

That kind of day
in which the night
watches me lay
my inhibitions aside:
kicked away, like the blanket,
in an hour of too much heat
before I begin to shudder,
sweating the dew of the premable of knowledge,
and the disgrace
of eviction from an Eden
of my own making...
(Such loss of face!)
I watch this Eden rearrange its laws,
turn into the tastefully done-up room it was.
I watch it put on its careful cheer,
like I, my clothes,
or like an actor, his veneer
of ordinariness.

And suddenly, I let go
of the illusory relief
of no longer having anything to say.
That kind of day.

(C) Annie Zaidi, December 2005.