Seven-hour rail journey.
As our lips meet,
our cabin door thrust open,
a uniform demands tickets.
They’re handed over, punched, handed back,
the door closed as resolutely as it was opened.
We sleep in each other’s arms.
One day we’ll make love on this train.
Firecrackers explode across a deserted street.
Women, heavily made-up, finely dressed,
amble potholed streets arm in arm with boyfriends.
Neon lights, buildings in shadow.
Elderly faces anxious to talk of heat and dust
at the first sign of our asking directions for a port
corroded by salt and neglect.
Bands of youths, fistfights with people running in.
Shouts above the sound of shattered bone,
blood spilt across the pavement and cars speeding past.
A shopkeeper draws us over:
his neighbour is cooking pig meat.
We smell it only outside his shop.
The joys of sausages with dripping.
To roast pork and boil pig’s feet,
cut away the skin to the meat and bone beneath,
cooling them in wine, the smell of fried pig fat as it wafts.
Metres ahead, refuse and mopeds.
Vehicles – cracked windscreens, crushed panels, missing lights.
To overtake at every opportunity, one hand on the steering wheel.
A porno cinema screens Seduction in the Convent.