My wife, a friend of hers, and I spent the day in Galle. Thus, this work came about.
On the Southern Expressway,
There’s a destination, Galle,
Named after the chicken,
Gallus gallus, the origins of licken,
And finger licking goodness,
– What became more popular, than the Kentucky Derby -.
And on pages of Dickens and Twists,
You find feathery chickens going,
On an Imperial zebra crossing, to the other side.
While the rooster stands regally tall,
On a pirouetting weather wane,
Almost like a seasoned sailor looking from the mast top,
At the turbulent sea. Waves of a maddening lexicon,
Rising above our wafer-thin intellects,
Salting words bathed in halite or brine,
Our love for the book, reeling in the anchor,
Sailing away on a journey,
The captain shouting “Ahoy mate” in farewell,
Where the point of disembarkation, is a sheer thrill,
So perfectly English, such a beautiful ending,
And still, how easily I forgot, the tectonics, the shifts,
Those noisy screaming “petite mortes”,
Those heart-shattering orgasms.
How much I prefer making love to a poetry book now,
The waves that come tumbling,
Through an open pupil,
Over the waves that just “come”.