Wanting for Saturday


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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

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