Lieve Prins
On the edge of the Entrepot canal,
under the boat crane,
the monkeys are going off.
I dangle my feet over the water,
while a family of four behind me
bring wine glasses, orange deckchairs
and a cedarwood table out onto the pavement.
The smell of air-fried borrel hits my forehead.
Maybe I’ll get a bottle of the holy snail.
I see the spot where we watercoloured
those five herons on the Canta car.
Remember telling me I was doing it all wrong?
I think about that a lot while writing haiku.
You, shaking your fist at me for trying
to control where the water goes.