I am the gardener with an alibi
and a purple ski suit
I am maintaining the premises
on which the golf balls are hit
and at the far end
where the ball drops
the body usually lies

in a glass ticket booth I am selling ice-cream
to the visitors
until I am a tree
struck by lightning
and have gathered a field around myself

mornings I go into the street with cold feet
in my hand an orange plastic basket
with which the milk is brought in

I am not walking on thin ice

when I am spreading my legs
I pretend they are wings

Translation: Willem Groenewegen