The sixth draft poem for Matthew Sweeney's Guardian Unlimited workshop:
I have my yellow boots on to walk,
the sort I always wear for an operation
like this. Lucky charms, you might say.
But don’t talk. The next few hours
will need to be as delicate and precise
as disarming a bomb, and as skilfully
executed as a hole in one. If I pull
this off, see, it’s the highlife abroad,
some gorgeous villa on the Med
with its sun-kissed walls, and a swimming
pool next to which I recline, the shimmering
waters, cigars and cocktails to pass the time;
in short, a world free from misery and strife.
If I fuck this up, I’ll be banged up for life.