it’s just like a coffin’s
inside when you die,
pretentious and shiny and
not too wide
dear god
there’s a portrait
over the door very notable of
the sultan’s nose pullable and rosy
flanked by the scrumptious magdalene
of whoisit and madame
something by gainsborough
just the playthings
for dust n’est-ce pas
effendi drifts between
tables like an old leaf
between toadstools
he is the cheerfulest of men
his peaked head smoulders
like a new turd in April
his legs are brittle and small
his feet large and fragile
his queer hands twitter before him, like foolish
butterflies
he is the most courteous of men
should you remark the walls have been repapered
he will nod
like buddha
or answer modestly
i am dying
so let us come in together and
drink coffee covered with froth
half-mud
and not too
sweet?