Streets of Reykjavik
Driving Past the Poet
He holds his cigarette in front of him like a beacon, the leading poet of his generation, haggard and cold, the only one on foot.
He walks up Bankastræti against the traffic while I drive down it and observe him from the warmth of my car.
We quarrelled once,
no twice come to think of it.
Of course I've only spoken to him twice.
Drinking Coffee With Kevin Costner
The waiter at Café Paris drags the tables and chairs inside.
“Com'on, Gaston, just a cuppa.” I nag the sour-pussed waiter who looks like Ronald Colman.
"My name's Sigtryggur," protests Gaston.
Kevin Costner, sporting an Indiana Jones fedora, slumps down at the next table and lights up the world with his smile. Ignoring the middle-aged man in jungle gear, I slurp my café au lait.
Ever so politely,
Kevin tries to wave to Gaston.
Gaston has no time for another latecomer
in a safari suit.
Costner sits around for a while,
accepting his lot with grace.
My cup of coffee tastes even sweeter with Kevin's envious eyes on it as he takes his leave with surprising dignity.
words: Jónas Knútsson, Iceland (more)
photo: Elle Driscoll, Australia (captured)