Not keen.
Not for me.
Not at the top.
Not for …
Me?
Orange, glossy, gilled, miniscule.
Unwillingly lurching over, lumping back, avoiding
shiny low bars – perfect for hurdling over – and
secured by man-handled devices.
A short, snappy jolt.
Catapulting high,
head crashing out of exploding glass,
eyes bailing out, cannon-balled over into
the hooped-open mouth of a Suffolk farmer –
low-down in his high-up tractor seat, and
prodding at his molars,
stabbing at seeds, wrenching them out from tight-dark spaces
in his lower jaw.
Success.
Closure.
A throaty lump.
Gulp.
Down.
For you …
