The toss, the tumble, the nearly making it last minute
plummet. The damp, the shade lightening, the lifting of fibres
away: the visible softening tumbling toss of the towels.
Dave nearly making it, jogging to Strauss. The onetwothree,
onetwothree, onetwo– –Hal peering through his portal,
its red gleam of eye. ‘What are you doing, Dave. Dave
what are you doing.’ I’m drying, Hal, you hung Frank
out to dry, but me–you put me in the tumbler. The eye
goes blank, Dave slows to a walk, falls. Penny theatre plus
inflation means 20p per centripetal pull: the real force, the fine aslant,
askew, the not so bloody obvious pulling you where you don’t think
you’re going, the falling always. The 20p
drops. Ten more minutes playing Hal, making Dave dance.