Krug, Macallan, Armagnac,
whatever they want, OK Jack—
already on the move, he’s slip-sliding
past beluga, chocolate fountains, oiling
the buzzing craic with a drizzle here, a dribble there,
pumping palms, patting asses, working the white Carrara floor.
Yeah I’ve done OK, he drawls, re-telling his wife and anyone
who’ll listen how he rode the tiger as if it was a done-in
fairground nag, up and down but mostly up
and up the greasy pole, made the top,
jumped before the roof fell in,
took nothing on his chin,
landed on his Guccied toes,
crouched and sprang again, closed
a deal overnight betting on the fact the walls
would crumble now, and of course was right. He calls
himself the constructive-executioner without the merest hint
of irony. Says there’s always got to be a hole, to make a decent mint.
First published in Poetry London in 1212
Mary Wight lives in the Scottish Borders. She has had poems published in magazines and anthologies, most recently in Envoi, The Blue Nib, The Poets’ Republic and Firth.