is white, to fool everyone who
stumbles upon it, and the doors
are green. A parrot is the sentry
and he’s fluent in fifty languages.
The smell of goat curry seeps out
from the kitchen that’s staffed by
blind chefs, and a bald vintner
waves half a dozen bottles of
local premier cru at the arriver.
It would be a churl who’d decline.
It would be a genius who’d know
what to say there. ‘Where have I
landed? Who is the good sir here?‘
I think not. I’d opt for the silence
of the moon, the stare of the sun.
I’d get out of there as soon as I
knew where I was. I’d leave hungry,
thirsty. I’d hitchhike back to the
harbour and take a boat to Limbo.
I’d keep looking after me, though.