Friday 26 November 2010

#20: Water In My Pockets

Strolling from a lake
without even stopping to brush
the pondweed from your shoulders:
this is the definition of suave.

I address the chairman with an easy smile,
extending my wet palm:
'Ah, Mr Fitzwilliam! So glad
we've run into each other!'
he, frozen in the act of threading
a worm onto his hook.
'Now about the Salisbury account...'
I unlock my briefcase,
dumping lakewater, documents,
bream.

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