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It’s hard to see Hamlet as some kind of everyman,

bellows old Professor Hydrofoil above the sound of his
own engine’s biscuity shout as he skims across the pale
Baltic waters lit with light. The sky is crazy for him,
his riveted body, all chrome fuselage, instant abdomen
and what looks from here to be a thing like kindliness.
He is, in fact, so shiny, so polished by his mother’s early love
that we can observe ourselves reflected in his tubular skin.
We can see our bent smiles which are the floaty grins
of children who hold their parent’s hands and watch
the happy dogs who run through parks, throwing off
their ridiculous beards and laughing, laughing, laughing.
But wait! Prof Hydro’s gone and got all serio’. He’s docked
himself in a study in an old house in Palookaville.
He’s donned huge human clothes. He looks out onto
a cold, wet street with the fallen leaves of trees stuck on it.
The arrangement of the threads in his tweed jacket
is such that that arrangement’s own woollen heart is
broken. On the radio is nothing because it’s switched off.