I don’t know what she really does for living,

Other than she lives.

Perhaps it is to squeeze beer mats dry

Or smile curtly at the customers,

Whose stains she intermittently wipes.


A rat ran between our legs

Dripping with liquid; smelling

For drains. The sun wove itself

In the patchy fur of its back.

She stood unfazed

Like a mast in a half-expected squall

Yet I noticed the squalid cloth in her hand

Crumbling under the squeeze;

Her white knuckles froze with pressure.

Nothing was spoken, the window was closing.

I wanted to bite her lips for pleasure

But between us sat a table and several chairs.


No whistles could be heard. No fox cries or dog barks.

Just the continuous sound overhead

Of a possibility swarm

Humming sadly and very loud.

Hassan Abdulrazzak

If you've any comments on his poem, Hassan Abdulrazzak would be pleased to hear from you.