Mr B, by Patrick Williamson

I am not a silent poet

Mr B
gets out of the private jet
tries to get an Evian
out of the machine.

The VIP
turn their heads
comment
but the coin drops dead.

He tries again,
for his little sister
the lounge is muttering
lost, presumed dead
no matter how many
buttons he presses
she won’t come back

Suave Mr B
thinks of trying for an exit
but the siren goes
he jumps back in
nimbly, must protect your head.

The next engagement is juicy
The relief is audible.

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