That spare room of yours,
telephone between us on the floor.
You, mock gun poised to frighten off
junkies who might steal
your bicycle.
World turning,
night falling
all around us.
Your long red hair,
wide free eyes
taking me in
and the cat you’d just taken in
purring
as the phone rang again to say
that ‘Yes, Sadat was dead.’
Semed that a moment of history
got trapped between us.
You, a journalist,
had to record it quickly.
Me,
I just flew back to England in the lightning
as someone else’s plane
crashed over Holland.
Forgive me breathing in your ear,
I just had to telephone to say
that some way I’d come back maybe
meet you for another drink
of Amsterdam
and Amsterdam rain.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
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