POET IN PASSING

She was sitting on a park bench, scribbling in a notebook, pausing and staring into space. I had

noticed her on my late afternoon walks. Of course I would notice her. She was quite an attractive

woman and I found myself harbouring base desires. She was possibly thirty, the same as me and

fair, wearing a shapeless house-smock as do the other wives. That afternoon I summoned up the

courage to speak to her.

“Hullo, you always seem to be busy writing. I know that it's probably rude to interrupt you but

I'm overcome with curiosity. Are you writing the Next Great Novel? Or are you taking notes on my

odd behaviour to report me at the next Resident's Block Meeting?”

“Good afternoon, Sir. I don't think that it's rude of you to interrupt me. At least I shouldn't think

so. You may have something of importance to tell me or a simple courtesy to offer. In that case,

your interruption would doubtlessly be most welcome. I tend to be a solitary soul and just may

welcome a diversion. Is that the correct word, Sir? As an aspiring poet, I expect that I should

know. I think that the word is appropriate. Good heavens, I'm divulging more than you probably

wish to know. I must apologise. As for reporting you to The Block Leader, I would never do that!

I find the man a total boor and a churl. I am a friendly, outgoing soul but I draw the line at him. Do

you know, his only interest in me is a base interest. He has made inappropriate advances to me. I

feel clammy when he looks at me. Unclean!

“But allow me to introduce myself. I'm Penelope, otherwise known as OW6478, an office worker

as my badge shows. I'm married and like to write poetry to alleviate my boredom and to satisfy my

inner artistic self. I find if I come to our Block Park, as plain and untended as it is that the solitude

and the absence of my husband's snoring let's me immerse myself in reverie and thus form word

pictures in my mind. Hence my poetry. When and if we become better acquainted and we gain

mutual trust, I would like to read you one of my humble works. You have a kind face Sir, I'm sure

you wouldn't be cruel and sneer at my poems. They're like my children, you know. I give birth to

them, worry over them, correct them and watch them grow into the finished beings.”

This woman's a trap! An attractive trap, of course, that's the bait to lure you in and then once she

has your interest-bang. She unleashes a barrage of eye-watering drivel and talks you to death. Or

even herself to death.

“I fear that I'm babbling on," she continued. "I'm not really familiar with the graces of social intercourse. My husband is not given to the social side of life. He is happiest sleeping in front of our TV set with an empty bottle of Alco-state beer resting on his stomach. I can assure you that this is not conducive to neighbourly inter-mingling. But your name, Sir? You haven't proffered it. I'm sure you would have if I hadn't been going on so. I do hope that I haven't bored you. I would hate to lose the hand of friendship that you appear to be offering me.”

She's stopped! Oh blessed relief. No wonder her husband retreats into drunken sleep. I can just

imagine what she'll be like when she's old. Another waffling old windbag, unaware that she 's

repeating herself for the umpteenth time and elevating boredom to a murderous level. Heaven help

us if as an old crone, she has an ailment! And she will have, real or imagined, and tell the world

about it. Repeatedly! Her husband will slit his wrists and hopefully her's or just run away

screaming. Or---

'The coroner's report, Your Honour, the husband died of an onslaught of unrelenting, constant

verbiage! The body's fingers were jammed so far into it's ears, they couldn't be removed. The

mortician had to sever them with garden shears and left bits protruding slightly from each ear.'

“My name Penelope, is Albert, AW3899, Assembly Worker thirty eight ninety nine in this glorious

People's Paradise.” I told her. “Widowed and lonely. I would love you to read your poetry to me. I

would never demean your work.”

I didn't tell her that's not just because you're attractive and I wish to fill the breach in your life that

your husband obviously isn't. Besides I'm formulating a plan to shut this bloody blatherer up. After I've had my way with her. A two for one. A double-bunger. How satisfying!

“Oh Albert, that's so kind of you. I write quatrains, four line verses, and try to keep them brief.”

Brief? Fancy that! Penelope flicked through her notebook to find an offering. “Here's one.”

She started to read and I listened. Even to my untutored ear, her poem sounded ordinary.

“Well done girl, I did enjoy that,” I lied, I'm sure the world will miss you, I thought, not for your

poems but for the blessed silence that will descend over the world with your elevation to a higher

plane. For surely the paths of prattling lead unto the grave.

“Albert, you shouldn't call an adult woman a girl. It's rather demeaning. Mind you, an elderly

lady told me that all ladies, regardless of age, feel that they are girls at heart. Maybe I shouldn't be

offended. I'm sure that you didn't mean to offend me. Maybe I should be flattered that you think of

me as a girl. Albert, you're going red in the face. Are you alright? I heard of a man who had a

massive heart attack after going red in the face. Should I fetch help? I don't know how to do CPR,

I suppose I should have learnt so that I could be of help in this sort of situation. Should I run for

help? Do deep breaths, Albert, in and out, in and out----”

Keep talking, Penelope! I thought. Just keep talking while you can! You are about to be given

the gift of infinite silence. This is going to be so easy, my would-be poet.

----

When I was just a whippersnapper, I read an interesting piece by a wise man- as near as I can

remember it was along these lines: be polite, organised and plan the execution of every new

acquaintance. It's somewhat along the lines of 'Be Prepared'.

I am always prepared!



By Victor Kirwan