At Britannia Café on Ballard Estate

late one afternoon, the poet

was discovered buying Bombay Duck

to take away, waiting to have it wrapped up

in a brown paper bag before he carried it home

fresh-fried and hot. This was where, by chance,

you met.

Simon Rhys Powell and Arun Kolatkar

sat on bentwood chairs and talked

about the art of frying and eating Bombay Duck,

how the bones were soft and melted

down the throat, how it could be swallowed

whole, with limba-cha-ras,

just like that.

The poet smacked his lips, you ate his words

as if they were Welsh, both of you savoured

the name itself, the taste on your tongues

of Bombil, Bummalo, Bombay Duck.

Two strange fish swimming in the mirrors of the café

like long-lost friends, bosom-buddies

brought together by a stroke

of luck.

Two lives too big to be packed away

in a brown paper bag like a take-away,

you will stay, you will still be there

on Ballard Estate when the boxwallahs

have come and the boxwallahs

have gone.