At the Penang
By Ken Bolton
eating
Asian food alone
I often feel
like a spy or
detective—mid-
century, on
my day off or
perhaps between cases.
Still, nice
to have a job—
& nothing much to
do. I pull
the envelope out
with the plan
for the next few readings—
names scribbled, scribbled-
out, reinstated, moved
around from week to
week. I wonder
how Lee Marvin
organised readings—
gun on the table,
hat upturned
on the floor,
flicking lit matches
into it? And then?
The names in the hat
that had burned
were in? out?
or just prominent
& suggestive & then,
like me, he grabbed
an envelope from
the desk (beside the bed
in his hotel room)
& scrawled them down. May
be?
I saw Marvin once,
at the Malay restaurant
near Central station where I usually
had the laksa—where
I first had laksa.
He was sitting with another man
& wearing a white
linen suit, quietly
in a corner. Not
much talk. He was
here, I think,
for Marlin fishing.
I’m here
for an hour
eating, reading, then
back to work—
where I pour some drinks,
(turn on the lights), check
the mike & soon the
poets drift in
& we do the reading.