Wet Finger In The Wind Poem by Diana van den Berg

He splashed his spleen in my face
when I was handing him
a courtesy.
Her superior Judas bones, pencil-sharpened,
and gluttonous,
ice-picked four corners of my back
in managerial support,
in spite of her having to face
the board next Thursday
for the same greed
towards her best, but equally disloyal, friend
of thirty years or more.
She ignored
his spleen and his inane, mocking cackle
dripping down my face.

(30 August 2006)