I work in the office canteen Where the walls are blue & the borders green And there's so many suits without heads And the air is obscene. From spotless passageways lit bright above Just like at school, they come. The lunchtime break. A mime industrial; carpet shuffle; floorboard creak. Gargoylic glares more sad than fierce look Upon their bait: the vats of mince. The hook: I catch their eye, they hunger for the stove. And then the few that do not gorge on chips Will swarm about the iron salad bar (That formulaic sustinence bazaar) Saliva wet for tuna-sweetcorn rolls. I hand them fish and smile at watery holes They quiver back, devouring their lips. I work in the office canteen Where the walls are blue & the borders green And there's so many suits without heads And the air is obscene. Decanting fish from tin to box to bowl I watch them chew a tunafish or cow I think about the fishermen and how Their blue expanse is greater than the sky That's shuttered out of each and every eye In this grey torture chamber of the soul.
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
4/22/2021 11:38:08 PM # 1.0.0.560