Doug Gilmour, the Market

In Kensington, at Amadeu’s
someone is smoking a rank cigar

The ferocious sun illuminates our ugliness: tap water is served in chintzy

Wine glasses with one, wan, cube of ice.

Behind us, a guy in this summer’s
straw hat, pressed shorts and crisp blouse

Goes through his girlfriend’s phone
and remarks on her pictures:

Christ, you look FAT here, he says. And, Look at this one, you look like you have a pig’s head.

I know, she says, I know.

Listen, he says. Never pose above a camera: you’ll look like you have ten chins.

Oh fuck, this one! —

My friend and I left without ordering and found that dive with baby-doll

Heads on the draught pulls

As he beat me at table-hockey I remembered another friend’s story about

Former Maple Leaf, Doug Gilmour.

He lived next door to him; the walls were thin.

Gilmour and his wife Amy were fighting, and it got ugly.

You fat cunt! he said.

And Amy said, tearfully, I’m not fat!

This is what the guy heard, something like filthy cheroot smoke on a shit-hot day,

Rising like sulphur and robbing the girls of their sweet smells,

Perfume, lotion. Pussy.

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