Somali Ali

On a warm December evening
we sat and chewed the fat,
a soft breeze rustled the peppercorn tree
as we waited for our cabs to come home.

There was Ogaden Mahomet and Somali Ali,
both refugees;
like me they drove a taxi,
nice blokes,
friendly,
willing to please.

Ali had been a soldier in
the endless Somali civil war,
the scars on his face and hands
and sad eyes said it all.

Mahomet said that I was the first Aussie he'd met
who knew anything about Ogaden,
Somali Ali was taciturn,
he had stories best left untold.

My cab came in first,
driven by Pommy Peter,
a red-faced loud-mouthed git.

He strutted over and
introduced himself,
asked who my friends were.

I told him "Mahomet and Ali".

Peter thought this was a great joke,
he asked Ali his first name,
Ali said "Mohammed"
and Peter cracked up.

Mohammed Ali!" he said
shadow boxing and laughing,
"you any good at fighting?"

Ali's muscles rippled,
scars jumping from his skin,
he fixed Peter with eyes from hell
then said quietly
"yes, I'm very good at fighting."

Peter turned pale,
fumbled an apology then
stumbled away to safer places,
the empire in full retreat.

Ali, Mahomet, and I looked at each other,
shrugged,
then our laughter
danced on the breeze filling
the summer evening.