Young man’s game

This seems to be going well, although,

against the mild hubbub of the crowded café

I struggle to make out all the client’s

softly spoken words.


And when he flourishes the flow-chart

that makes everything clear, my misted eyes –

the lighting’s dim – see nothing but virgin snow,

traversed by aimless birds.


The meeting’s drawing to a close;

it’s time to go.

There’s one last pressing thing

the client needs to know.


Am I sure that I can meet the deadlines?

(They’re very tight, he’s well aware.)

I am. Quite sure. (Or would be if I’d clearly heard

him tell me what they were.)