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.)