it’s just like a coffin’s
inside when you die,
pretentious and
shiny and
not too wide
dear god

there’s a portrait
over the door very notable of
the sultan’s nose pullable and rosy
flanked by the scrumptious magdalene
of whoisit and madame
something by gainsborough
just the playthings
for dust n’es-ce pas

effendi drifts between
tables like an old leaf
between toadstools
he is the cheerfulest of men
his peaked head smoulders
like a new turd in April
his legs are brittle and small
his feet large and fragile
his queer hands twitter before him,like foolish
he is the most courteous of men

should you remark the walls have been repapered

he will nod
like buddha
or answer modestly
i am dying

so let us come in together and
drink coffee covered with froth
and not too