The Foreigner in the Lift

Fierce pain sharked through his arm.

Pietro Bornorquod rent air and ears,

skeltered fatly through narrowing lift-doors,

with desperado gusto of weary traveller.

Struck in drop by clanging door,

his suitcase thudded to resquiescat;

strain removed from bargain locks,

discharging unwashed contents.

Some bovine-standers

stiffened British upper lips;

others, less patriotic, betrayed

national wrapping:

blinked round, still chewing cud,

sniggered, raised eyes almighty-wards.

The bovine standers stared:

a fat squeak, thud and spill evolving

amorphously into a huge anal bend

thrust malodorously into their faces;

into phonemes of foreign distress;

into tumble of the bent man's

personal effects from his jacket pocket:

wallet, passport, papers, dirty postcards

and so on, ad nauseam, indelibly,