The parrot dangles head-down, wings
spread, a husk on a chain. Dead leaves
tremble on the carpet, crisp ochre

on the faded greys and greens.
At a long trestle, dazed or bemused,
scratching a beard or balding scalp,

five stalwarts of the Irwell Tory Club
sit at five checkerboards. Behind them,
on the stage, a little blindfold man

dictates his moves against the five
who cannot win; a colleague—wing-collar,
spit-and-polish shoes—performs the jumps.

On yellow-lacquered chairs, young women
cross and uncross their long, red-stockinged
legs and gripping the seats lean forward

as if to unweave an almost silent music
from the mesh of air, its shifts,
its sudden stillnesses. Alderman Taylor,

champion of the Club, no shirt-cuff brighter
or more stiffly starched, risking this day
a landmark loss of face, stares

blankly at his board. In vain the girls,
all lipstick and lashes, struggle to sort
what might be Iolanthe from

the Death March from Saul. I raise my eyes
to a blotchy ceiling whose drooping clouds
may part at the dénouement. The moves

are called. The lackey clears four boards.
The heads all turn to Taylor. He sees
the trap, prefers to sacrifice.

Another call. And still he will not jump
and lose. Once more. The thunder breaks.
The groupies rise in chorus, tearing off

their underpants to hail the chief,
now on his feet, his blindfold still intact.
The parrot and the leaves burst into flame.