My future has no teeth or heartbeat.
She chain-smokes and makes faces at the cameras outside the bank.
Ofcourse she laughs with the boys when they jeer,
She knows all the girls moves by heart.
One day she’ll travel to Riyadh to punch a man in the face,
Because he left his ears in the sink of some tired maid’s place.
She’ll get him to confess and recite the arabic alphabet,
So she can brush up on vowels, tenses, and common sense.
Il devra partir bientôt.
His ears oscillate in the foaming suds,
She pinches their wrinkles lovingly,
The way mothers do the folding skins of a child.
She hooks them as butterfly wings setting them free with a prayer.
Squinting at what has dived into my mug,
I put my paper down, curse and make a scene,
She appears uniformed naturally offering another drink or extra service.
Instead of the cheque she leaves a shoebox on my table,
In it I found letters we wrote in the futur simple
But never really made much of.
I like this very much. 
