We went out of season, so it was cheap.

I wanted to explore the caves

where, I’d heard, people actually lived.

Imagine, living in caves.

 

I wanted to hire a car, drive the length of the island,

touch each tip of it with my Northern English fingers

and taste Balearic boundaries;

take home a token pebble               

to remember ephemeral freedoms.

 

I wanted every dish on the beach-front menu,

sea-fresh everything, new each night.

He had steak and chips, whinged about

the stench of my Mussels Marinara,

my steaming pot of aromatic heaven,

tongue in rapture, drenched in butter,

mopped and messy,

happy.

 

He had steak and chips

every night,

refused to drive,

touch different tips or click-clack freedom

two weeks later with a pebble on a desk.

 

Imagine,

steak and chips,

every night.

Imagine,

living in caves.