Shamelessly, I effect an introduction.
Talk about the snake I'd just seen
which you immediately name. I listen,

keep schtum about my poetry,
say how much I admire yours
then mention Scarborough. Had you been?

On our street, perhaps? Did you know
Wilfred Owen was there in 1917?
That Richard 3rd was a help to the town?

A Pennine version of Midnight Cowboy:
my Ratso Rizzo to your gortexed Joe Buck -
shuffling to keep up. Then you're gone.

And I follow your parting wave
and diminishing outline,
till it's finally swallowed by the wood.

Then imagine you casual in jacket and slacks,
looking in antique shops; prowling around
the museum or strolling on The East Pier -

craning your neck to look up at the castle.
Who'd recognize you wandering around
away from your river and open spaces?

Just some big loner on a day at the seaside.
Fat chance! (But the idea appeals.)
Perhaps you'd slip into the pictures:

I see you wedged into a bucket seat,
that huge frame jack-knifed in the circle,
about to lose yourself (your conscious self)

in some movie. I see the lights go down,
you settling into delicious anonymity -
your mind engaged in cosmic dramas.

Then that great ham of a hand; pincering
the little plastic fork, as it slices, curd like,
the top layer of your raspberry fruit parfait…