At Dillon’s Bookstore, Trafalgar Square,
I ask for directions to a Tea Shop.
The woman frowns, emits a curious, throaty, NO!
At the table, while being told by an impatient
waiter,
No more soup. And no bread either, I glance
your way:
possibly blonde, maybe my age; expensive suit
beneath a pair of large, unhappy, honey-colored
eyes:
That is outrageous. These English!
You lean forward, tell me you’re
half-Irish, half-Libyan and waiting
for the small Libyan friend, who may be
standing you up.
You say I’m kind. When I reply that I’m not so
sure,
you add, All we can do is notice what we feel
and if we feel something’s right for us,
have the courage to do it. That is all;
and after that, try to give solace
to as many people as possible.
And as I listen, more carefully, dazzled by your
words,
you speak of people and events I know little
about.
Tell your people to stop demonizing Quadaffi.
It won’t work; he has a ring of love around
him.
You rise to go, hand me your address,
together with a poem about a woman,
married to a Libyan, killed in a plane crash.
Write to me here; may God bless you.
I’m glad you’re going to Scotland.
We are Celtic people. That is something else.
The something else at last brings out
your smile.
Copyright © 1999 by
Susanne Dubroff.
