Poetry- Susan Castillo Street
We watch the cricket.
Clueless American, British man.
Tomay-to Tomah-to doesn’t even come close.
I blink at the screen, hesitate
but think, what the heck, ask
sorry, but, er, what is a wicket?
He smiles back, tells me gently,
explains the meaning of
leg in front, googly.
I remind myself that after all,
he has passed the Elvis Test,
cunningly designed to root out
Americanophobes, though right now
there’s a lot to hate us for. Still,
a man who’s Sound on Elvis
and a woman who s...