From the archives No.3

Indestructible

Yesterday on the 67 I took the last available seat.

Soon afterwards there was much tutting and kissing of teeth.

Above stood an African Empress with her entourage,

no older than 35,

muttering about priority seats.

I didn't consider her need taking priority over mine

so I sat firm accepting the challenge

only to be willingly usurped by a genuine case

minutes later.

Cue tutting and kissing of teeth.

I chose a seat at the right hand

of another African Monarch

whose giant denimed thighs

sat proud and immovable,

her teeth and tongue condemning my broadsheet.

Brows beaten from all sides

I perched in deference

careful to avoid more tutting

and kissing of teeth.

As we hit the shallow end of Kingsland Road

It struck me how fond I was of these women

with their tutting disapprovals and kissing of teeth.

Better, I thought, than glass eyed boys

with their handsome noses

Flat amidst their reflections,

dreaming of all the small

victories.

Better than the butterblondes

Rationing their icy kisses

to any new captain.

Or all the scattered sequins

jostling

for the light.

Better than asteroids

and firestorms

and free masonry

and performance art

and Bird flu and publishing sensations and the Bergdorf diamonds

Better than anxiety and better than regret.

But not better than cats.

Elegant and unbeatable,

indestructible,

striding through centuries.

And here amongst African Royalty,

these women seem permanent and

as indestructible as cats.

Kissing their teeth at my shadow

behind them on the high street or

in the queue for the cash machine.

Tutting at the breeze for its impudence

yet, I like to think,

secretly smirking at it all.

And the tutting and the kissing of teeth

a surly challenge to laughter