Disarmed Warriors (In the Mall)

  OH 
  MY 
DAYS

speckled white tower on red borne by a Chinese ahma blaring into the street more than the old love knew. Shopping trolley pulled behind and hoicked over the Onan Road steps; recent dye and eyebrow tattoo it looked. Buoyant easy stride swivelling her head as she cast over the tables and stalls.... By contrast the figure of Omar yesterday so poorly disguised by his neat, maid-laundered persiflage—white long-sleeve possibly even starched; likely the woman had polished the shoes and certainly ironed the trousers. (After three or four maids that failed to meet expectations the current was quite satisfactory. The woman even needed to be encouraged with her food, both the size of in-take and the avoidance of meat and fish apparent. Finest humility and respect.) A thunder strike from the newspaper that killed two joggers in Malaysia mentioned by Omar in the walk up the road. (In memory Omar had the event taking place locally.) Poof! No more. How many million was that chance? chuckled Omar, mouth askew. Fourth stage cancer was another nightmare fate awaiting some Misfortunates—morphine and the finish of that show, apropos of nothing. 

Having gotten off the bus Omar had been unable to catch his friend's long strides, a call on the phone needed. Going that way? Omar would come along to the hotel and proceed from there to his Arab Association in the next lorong. It was open, yes; normal office hours someone always at the desk. 

Thirty-seven years school-teaching, eight money-changing and a stint driving a cab. A couple of other half-hearted side-lines failed to amount to anything and almost a loss of a pile in a bad loan.

O starosti! Sramotno oruzje!

Oh Age! Shameful weaponry!

For Montenegrin hill-tribesmen the same as for desert Bedouin. (Transplanted the same.)

The old ahma’s billboard took one back to earliest days in our street kitchens with tea-pots steaming and biscuits on a plate. There may have been some currency in early television comedy skits featuring put-upon housewives in hair-nets and unreliable husbands. 

Would a single person in this republic on the Equator have the faintest idea on the exclamation? One single solitary? It did not appear an especially worn or faded tee.