Pubsinger (For Ivan Robertson) Poem by Charl JF Cilliers

A fog rolls out from the caved
murky pub into the deserted street.
Rhythms like rinsed cloths flap
at the tattered windows night after night
in the dull wind. I stare
at the shapeless patches of vomituslight
outside the door where shadows reel
and tumble.
You also stare and wait,
dreaming in your chair while she sings
in slow-sobering snatches to a stumbling sax.
She moves in discords of her fumbling sex
across her own marble-floor dreams.
Between the crowding tables she weaves
past one sweaty lap after another,
her blind hands groping out her song.
A drunken hush has made us part
of her dream, too afraid
to touch her and tell her she’s real.