The Director

He invites me to the special, firstclass dining room
Wear your Bombay hat, he says, so I find it
and in a girly white hat and a long flowered not-me dress
I cross a room crowded with ordinary tables of ordinary people
They all know me
Some of them maybe even care about me
and all are curious. Where y’going?
I’m having dinner with the Director, I flounce.

I get to the door, he,
pressed white shirt, charcoal jacket,
cleansmooth face, short cleansmooth dark hair,
looks me in the eye, smiles, says,
in his semiliquid voice,
Let’s go somewhere more intimate, I know a place

In this dream I can speak a little.
Yes, let’s, I say.

His car is not a greenblack Mercedes
It’s more my type of thing, a beatup red Holden Astra
He sees my look and says
It has sentimental value
It runs with an assertive dreamsmooth humroar
He knows how to keep a car running
I like that in a man

(First published in The Mozzie)