A Two Part Drama - original poetry

I

I take coffee, mid-morning and slowly wake.
Bitter sweet, last night’s clothes, these rags
I wear to sleep alone, the taste of now:

The guy in the noodle shop with sad soft eyes
looking at her as she sits, a knowing
smile, waiting for her to leave, undressing
her in his mind.

       Curve and shadow I bless.

But nothing more, only these selfishly
secret thoughts, no thought of mine.

       Outside walking down the street
       she knows she shines,
       her body in a cotton dress.

II

My language and culture have produced
Shakespeare, Joyce and the fuel-air bomb.
An infinity of freewill has led
to genteel debate on the rights and wrongs
of torture:

       Old Alfie baken caken
musin’ strategy (please, the gods, let Homer
have been ironic, hymnin’ the cold bronze):

Ineffectually we rant and rage
in opposition, each plastic excuse
practising the formal syntax, the auld
lady collecting beets, by the sacred
fire he sits the flames nothing in his eyes,
his cold eyes calculating ignoring
the smokin’ cakes, the flesh minced hoff all
livin’ persons hin the him’mediate
vicinity. Sir!

Very good, Williams, that will be all.
Oh, on your way out ask them in the office
to please send in my tea, will you, thank you.
Mrs.P should be there.

And the fat Italian tenor sings: she
has travelled over mountain, over sea
to bring the English gentleman his tea.

Well, quite. It’s something Jonny Foreigner
should jolly well take note of, that’s all
I can say. He can’t say he hasn’t been warned.

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Thank you for reading @richardjuckes