We would watch the professionals practising
while we waited our slot. Tuesday’s school booking
for Richmond’s riverside ice-rink: yet to master
balance, let alone grace – a riot of twisted ankles
and bruised behinds, of frozen falls. And no better
off the ice either: schoolboy voices just squeaking
past breaking point, our heads and hormones fit
to burst with blind ambition. We would sit with
our backs to the chocolate machine, sketchpads
on laps and ink on fingers. You were the one
we knew would go to art school. At least twice
– did you forget that first shy confession? – you
mumbled to me as one couple spun and twirled
as natural as swifts in flight that you dreamed
that you could make sticks of charcoal dance
like carp in a fountain. And in my head, full
of puberty’s dreams of bandstands and concert halls,
melodies flowed like rivers, rounding precipitous bends
and descending white-foamed rapids, seeking the sea.

Please do not bring your authentic self: you
are needed here, but – please understand –
not conventionally wanted. The clients’ books
will be mirrors in which you cannot be seen,
their buffed thoughts smoothly backed
by your silver tongue so as to reflect only
their personal brilliance. Their particulars
will be presented with an estate agent’s honesty:
nouns fact-checked against photographs,
maps and floorplans, but adverbs prone
to more optimistic interpretation. You
are the obedient sub-contracted puppeteer,
pulling on only the requested strings; the stylist
who plumps the cushions and softly suggests
quieter lighting. You may occasionally have
original thoughts, but always seek permission.
This is libretto karaoke. Be careful never to
forget who is the singer and who is the song.