As she lies there naked on the only hot
Day in a ruined August reading Hugo Williams,
She looks up at the window-cleaner
Who has hesitantly appeared.

Wishing that he were Hugo Williams
She luxuriates provocatively,
Her fantasy protected by the glass
Or so she thinks.

Would that this abrasive oaf
Were Hugo Williams, she muses –
Imagining the poet in a black Armani
Bomber jacket from Miami Vice,
His lips pursed to kiss.

Suddenly, convulsively, she draws
The sheet up over herself
And quivers, having at last realised
That it really is Hugo Williams.

He sinks out of sight,
His poem already written.
He signs it ‘Hugo Williams’.
The blue overalls have come in handy.

He takes off his flat cap,
Letting his silken hair fall free.
Hugo Williams has gone back to being handsome.
The poet has come down to earth.

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