What I Really Want to Do

In the hotel I wait in a fresh suit,
the material hanging on me cold and heavy.
My palms are clammy, cheeks burn
from adrenalin. Muffled TV applause
and premiership results haunt the air.
I'm about to piss again when he arrives,
shakes my hand well then leads me
by the grinning receptionist, down thin stairs
past a Spanish argument in the kitchen
into the back room.

Through the net curtain there is a wall.
A two bar electric heater
from a Giles cartoon has filched the oxygen.
He asks me to sit. I already have
so he thanks me for coming and
thanks me for wearing a suit and I say
it's new, this morning, I'm trying it out
to see if it works and he laughs.

He asks the big one first,
What do I want to do? but he's friendly
and funny and he wants me to be frank
so I tell him, I'm lost, unsure
and he tells me my CV is intriguing, a jigsaw
with bits missing then extra bits,
snippets from another scene. And that's funny.
But what do I want to do?

He tells me about him: he loves opera.
His hands are thick and small and he's perspiring
in the receding Vs and he writes
articles on interview techniques for IT graduates,
and reviews opera.
He doesn’t say for whom.
Sometimes he's in Geneva.
He has a suit on. No tie. It is Saturday.
But what do I really want to do?

I hold my hands out, palms up.
They're empty.