Voices in the dark

called me back

to visit the arcade

set in a neat

brick facade of shops

entrance flanked

by hairdressers and minicab office

no sign up

though it was a cafe

had been for years.

 

Stripped of pretension

no daylight entering in

though a copy of the Sun

gave life to the place

but no welcoming

smells of cooking

 

word had gone round

the whites had moved on

now ruling the mysterious place like

an Egyptian tomb the new supremo

with his gold rings

eager and anxious to please

by turns sweeping

and serving, trying to be

everywhere at once

smiling at customers

like a rictus.

 

Once the arcade had

turned sharp right

a thriving upholstery shop

selling bolts of cloth, skeins

needlecraft patterns.

Now corners were

closed off and dark

cleaning apparel

leaning cold shouldered, stacked

 

I ordered tea

for eighty pee

as warming as it was cheap

but here was a man

who bought direct from China

an instinct for trade

adept at cutting corners.

 

I remembered as

a boy the garage there

red floor, the smell of fuel

and grease, relayed

this memory to the man

as he took the money

he gave a slight nod

almost a bow at how

history leaves a mark

 

like the one on his forehead

like a voice in the dark.