Thursday, November 6, 2014


A stately old heritage building,
With tiny windows,
Near the cenotaph,
The dingy room was so small
It was crowded by a coffee table.
Water glasses half-empty.
Inroduced by his business partner –
A man with shifty eyes
And the pointed face of a weasel,
Or perhaps a ferret,
A badly groomed tickler
From a bogan background.
He seated himself a little way away -
Intent on covering his back? -
Occupying the only walled corner.
He offered a limp hand
And a silent greeting of sorts –
A slight curl of his pursed lips.
His pet ferret did all the talking
About nothing that was new –
Just the same old stuff.
Hedge funds, New York, Hong Kong,
Now for Australia.
Another slight twist of the mouth
As the story was told.
Then compliments for me
From the snout of the weasel.
He seemed bored.
I decided to cut it short.
I knew little about hedge funds anyway.
That admission got his interest.
The weasel asked
About my connections.
Got him more animated –
He even leaned forward.
Signals I could not see.
Then farewells began
And he stood.
He was very short,
With a solid build.
His large head almost gave him
The appearance of a garden gnome.
His face was still expressionless.
Large brown eyes said nothing
And barely moved.
I was determined to make him speak
To get a sense of the man.
I looked him straight in the eye
He seemed uncomfortable –
A genuine introvert,
Simply shy, I thought,
Preferred to let others
Speak and schmooze.
Asked if he was from New York.
“I’m Canadian.”
His voice was deadpan
And dour,
No evidence of humour -
A hedge fund manager.

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