As if a soufflé collapsed then put on a suit
but couldn't quite get itself dressed.
Flabby and ashen, piss holes in a snowman,
straw hair, like a field mid-harvest.
He's rarely coherent (been sampling the product's
the rumour that's doing the rounds),
he waffles on over to make me an offer
like we were all men about town.
He says he has something that's "Cool, just cooked"
and maybe I, "Fancy a taste?"
But I'm not inclined, to which he says, "Fine,
stuff like this won't go to waste."
He slips me their card, "Remember to call
when you feel like you need a Mistake."
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, R.G.
Jodah would be pleased to hear them.