Meanwhile, in the Grasmere Conference Suite
 
Mingle, they say,
and I feel stiff and spotty as a domino,
with a six at the bottom, dotted
in two tight rows,
and a one at the top.
 
Twenty minutes on the clock.
I take tea from the table,
and mess up the twist-top milk jug.
I smile all down my straight flanks,
but curl inside.
 
Should I butt up to a wobbling single
or hover blankly
by a loose-set pair?
Will silence be my downfall,
or interjection?
 
I take more tea,
stage a toilet trip,
clank about with my game face
as if squaring for a match.
Fourteen minutes to go.

Nina Parmenter

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Nina Parmenter would be pleased to hear them.