French Cricket

Today, wearing sharply-creased,

white chinos, expat inspects

his fruit trees. A red-ribboned

panama protects his bald patch

and aviator sun-glasses shield

his eyes from the sun-burnt flesh

of his tenants - the fat family of five.

A battered car arrives, splutters

its contents - an elderly couple,

two dogs, a wicker basket,

mwah-mwahs and Bonjours -

onto expat's drive. HELLOW,

he booms, his mouth full of plums,

MY WIFE IS INDOORS. He draws

a maison in the sky and points

towards his French conversion.

The short woman from the Fat

Five, caught out by the pool, grabs

a beach towel to cover her silly-midriff;

gabbles embarrassed bon joors

and mercy bow koos. Her round

cheeks as crimson as the apple

expat selects. He rubs it on his whites,

turns and walks toward her, hand

cupped - palm back - like a spin-bowler

wanting to disguise his delivery. Silently,

I urge him to break into a trot, deliver

a googly into Mrs. Stumpy's blockhole

so that I, from long off, can star-jump,

shout Comment cela?