ANCIENT BELGIQUE – BRUSSELS:
My angel has many professions, builder, petrol pump attendant,
postman. Today he’s a bus driver.
“Would you like a bit’ve toast?” he asks, bright-eyed, full of life,
even after hours behind the wheel. I stumble around, toothbrush in
mouth, raise a hand declining. Everyone’s asleep, parked up on a
Brussel’s street, talks about his sons with pride, the truck driver,
the medical insurance salesman, about his love for them, about being
a parent, a partner, a man. This is stuff I need to hear, sitting
across the table, nodding, scooping mashed wheat & rice milk as he
hands me a mug of camomile & honey, unsure if the damage I did to my
throat last night will allow me to sing I shut up & listen, feeding
on his medicine, growing stronger, cleaner, ride with him up front
in his cab, Beethoven Piano concertos underscoring the stone faces
of a Belgian rush hour.