II.

Among Anstruthers

Rafa, good timing as always you fat bastard!
Glad-handing, joshing, jovial – seething in the stuffy air,
the man bantered over wet canapes,
bantered over grey lobster and boot-leather steak,
watched cappiliaries on hot faces flush and break,
the monkey wine flow and the talk turn bitter, then hard.
Through the milling ill-fitting suits
he could see, nose to the glass,
the lonely, articulate frame of a Frenchman and,
through the glass, on the deck,
alone with himself, the clouds and the thunder:
el pinche Portugués, manager of the London Blues.
A string quartet, all starch and elastic elbows,
sawed in the corner, half-hidden by anstruthers.