There is a room in Peru,
a big, lofty renovated barn
type room. And in this room
three strangers are lying
cosy under forty blankets.
On a top bunk by the window –
a window with a view of inter-
galactic constellationary kitchen
lights – lies el Capo; he is still wearing his took, he likes the way it keeps his hair in place all night, so it never looks too haywire come morning.
El Capo stifles chortles
and gurns as two comedians
flood his ears with witticisms.
Below the giggler lies Don Quixote; he lies on his back because he believes it’s the best way
to rejuvenate his muscles,
and he likes to prove to himself
he’s adult enough not to need the foetal position.
Don Quixote has his eyes
clasped shut, a fat and
loveable grin on his face. His toes dance to ABBA swede-pop.
Then, across the airy chill of bunk to bunk No Man’s Land, lies
Mathilda Wormwood, she has recently clipped her toenails
and she tests their smoothness
on her ankles.
Mathilda Wormwood hasn’t distracted herself with podcasts or music. Instead, she watches the rough plastered ceiling twist shapes above her, and concludes that she does indeed believe in different planes of reality. She has decided to strive for those
higher than her.