Poems by David Cooke (UK)

Published in issue 40 of The Ofi Press

BILDUNGSROMAN

Imagine a world where pester power

rarely delivers the goods and a dawdling

hike to school’s the norm. You have fresh air,

your friends, and a small coin burning

a hole in your pocket. Spend it now

or do your best to make it last the week.

In class Rosanna Ferrario likes to sit

beside you. All the others make you blush.

They seem to know you like her too.

Give her a Love Heart with your message

so, at least, she’ll learn it’s true,

even though their taste is sour.

Your best friend Jan eats salami.

How can anyone like that stuff?

Does he like bacon boiled with cabbage?

The day you both forget the milk,

singing Beatles’ songs, Mr Murphy canes you

to help you mend your ways.

DRINK

He has a way with a pint that hints

at who he is. It starts as the ale is drawn,

his eyes moving from the barmaid’s chest

to her grip on the polished wood

of the pump. Along the tilted side

of the glass, the liquid rises

as if spelling danger, or re-establishing

an equilibrium, while the over-lively froth

gushes forth like loose talk

before it drains into the slops;

and when the measure’s attained,

with a small headspace left,

she sets it up on the counter

for him to assay. He pauses briefly,

holds it up, then gives it a quarter turn,

staring into it like a talisman,

or the dark mirror that shows him

what he needs to see.