The man in 119 takes his tea alone. Mornings we all rise to wireless Verdi cries. I’m hearing opera through the door. The souls of men and women, impassioned all. Their voices climb and fall; battle trumpets call. I fill the bath and climb inside, singing.
He will not touch their pastry but every day they bring him more. Gold from the breakfast tray, I steal them all away and then go and eat them on the shore.
I draw a jackal-headed woman in the sand, sing of a lover’s fate sealed by jealous hate then wash my hand in the sea. With just three days more I’d have just about learned the entire score to Aida.
Holidays must end as you know. All is memory taken home with me: the opera, the stolen tea, the sand drawing, the verging sea, all years ago.

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