From Kurashiki to Manchester
It’s my last day. I’ll never see the telephone cables, from the corner of my eye,
meshed together, look like crows’ mingling.
White sheets straggling washing lines, having a barney with futons; bent over balconies,
blowing in the wind, from the bellow of petrol station attendants;
who make rainbows on windscreens with their elbows, egging cars, in and out.
I’ll never smell yaki niku, as it smoulders on charcoal:
Amy, splatting me with the fat.
Taste the gumminess of mochi, melting all corners of my mouth:
It’s red centre, like lava.
I’ll never hear the jostling of school children’s bags, bouncing with pokemon,
Hello kitty key rings, swinging from their straps.
Irasshaimase, sumimasens, as I walk into conveni’s.
I’ll never see, the black inviting eyes, of the female sushi chef, as she shapes the tuna,
gives ME, Extra wasabi J
I land, see the familiar red and orange lights lining the M60.
My Nan’s white wiry hair and soft tissue wrinkles, welcome me
Mum’s cheeks, a flurry of red, reaching for a hug
Dad’s manky moan’s: Where’ve you bin, the pots need doin
And you sister
Relief, rimming your smile.