SKETCH Poem by Jeroen Theunissen

The ventilator-lady talks
with eyes in her plant.
Yes she has eyes in her plant.
She talks, there are friends.
There's no summer or youth,
there's this cafe, there are friends,
hoodwinked by exhaust fumes
and flexibility.
She then moves
like one peels oranges:
primps, plays
with fingers.
She moves in a drawing.
And she smiles.
It's all right, she says.

And the low-energy light bulb man
wonders why she moves. He only calls
because he has a telephone.
He wants to leave, the days
should have taken him
to another land.
Where people speak Italian.
At times he doesn't want to leave but stay.
And she talks with eyes in her plant.