Rissani (Forty five minutes).

Turkish tea in plastic cups
red as virgin rabbit’s blood,
dripped, sipped, blown upon,
ordering from the board,
with a broad German accent
that fools no-one.

Hähnchenfleisch if I’m flush,
falafel, if not so much
and halloumi for a change—
(exact amount, never change);
I watch the clock as he dips,
fries and he slices

pitta, round as a drawn moon;
chilli splodged on yoghurt,
packed over the swollen parcel,
each sip, bite, nectar, ambrosia
beneath a yawning awning,

trains clinking by in tepid rain.