He’s holding them with equal importance.
His shirt is the white of the spiral on his ice lolly,
the sun cream smudge on his nose,
the Ray-Ban tan line around his eyes.
He’s looking at the predictable river
as long as the tie tightening around his neck,
the fold in his cloud grey trousers,
the temptingly stiff black belt around his waist.
His head is the stuffed shut briefcase,
opening briefly for a Friday afternoon lick.

© Carl Burkitt 2022