Man hangs, happily distracted,
From a dream of smoke.
In another world; his
Friend is at one end
Of a fight-tense line.
Between them a woman whose
Skeleton is a charity-shop stool frame.
Across the smooth water
A thin stick holds up a man.
Me? I’m here; balancing unsteadily
On a reflection that shifts and
Cannot possibly be me
I’m not that colour, I’m not
That rigid, that tired, don’t
Look as old as the water
So faithlessly shows.