We were catching sun,
What was left of it,
Under the shed of a
Black squat woman, mother enough
To pick Gulder crowns for Peter’s audition.
Oliver de Coque’s Opportunity
On repeat. And a bottle of stout for her troubles.
She pressed us to have her pepper soup,
We declined. Some news about
Dressed vultures in chicken’s disguise lingered.
Peter is doing two hundred press-ups daily.
He is fitter than a fiddle.
He wants to become the next Ultimate man.
I have grown a paunch.
I want to become the next Joyce
Or Nabokov or Camus or Faulkner
I haven’t picked auditions for my crown.