For Mel
So, put on the spot you choke a bit
and pick the cocktail umbrella.
The cowled umpire looks at you from behind the weapons table
with sudden, lurching admiration,
his few teeth black keystones in a sparrowgrass beard.
With thumb and forefinger
he picks it out from amongst the heavy maces,
the halberds,
the blunderbus carbines from Switzerland.
It looks even smaller up close:
a pink, paper thing
with a picture of a palm tree.
Well, it's too late to complain.
A portcullis rattles up and blast of heat
rolls in from the arena.
You raise the tiny parasol above your head,
and march in
to cheering.
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