Wanting for Saturday
Wanting for Saturday
Remembered by the Punjab remembering
Surrounded by susurration grass cover for snakes
The urbane turban demands attention as a siren clears traffic
An oracular cupola rotating colours to flash as specials lit up in the window of a butcher shop
Renowned throughout the suburb for its tradition as ignorant of Halal
Khalsa dictates initiation in the ways of a warrior constrained to pacify
Noblesse oblige reconstituted in the ways of transported liberal democracy
Sub-subcontinental drift with a memory firmly staked on the worship of borders
When homeland is a state of mind secure in the knowledge of the rules of the one true game
For anything to give chase in 40-degree heat as the tram sits idling in need of a breeze to push off against
Modes of transport take flight in delight of birds of a feather flocking together as student and teacher alike
When an inaudible intake of breath and self-control to refrain from shaking heads
opposed to hands indeterminate to left and right or yes and no confirms the path of assimilation
In the eyes of those born to rule and who set the bar too low for an upright man of mien unselfconscious enough to stoop
To wanting the weekend to roll around once more as the meter ticks over on the shift
Geared to equal the distance between a fare lost in affray with themselves at losing memory of their destination
And outright patient courtesy and tact in going above and beyond the call of duty
To convey by action the insignia of honour tattooed on his forearm’s totemic spear
The sheer gravity of the beard’s weight in growth taken to deliver Alzheimer’s credit to somewhere in the vicinity of fragmented destination no GPS can account for
Facial recognition streams like an emoji as he knows me and I hop in the front seat
Unable to do more to assist in zeroing in on the base station of local knowledge
When even I can get lost in my own neck of the woods and want for nothing
Except the sixth day when any self-respecting god would take a leaf out
Of any good book or lore unto itself and we await the call to arms
When we vote with our feet and box the ballot about the ears
Free to discriminate in favour visa vis a bees’ nest worn as a beacon of light
To guide notions of free agency through the maze of inter-cultural fabric adorning
the idea of a 38 hour working week.
Michael Haward