No decent parking
in front of the Iranian place.
Little car left
in a side street off Temple Fortune,
one of the Jewish neighborhoods
in North London. Falafel,
the kosher butcher,
Boots the Chemist,
the Jewish bookshop.
The rhododendron on fire
in an ample front garden.
Semi-detached properties,
a little old man, his kippah
covering a bald pate,
waters the lawn.
Scrumptious koobideh.
A culinary pilgrimage
for Nina and me each year
upon my return home.
Newspapers in Farsi,
old men reading them
at the bus stop.
After a pause:
Did you know that Gilda
got married?
Yes, to Meredith.
They adopted a stray dog.
Fingers ending in blood-red nails
tapping the table top,
sudden cool rain steaming
the windows.
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