From nine to five an orchestra
of obbligato percussion
rattled beneath the chat of girls
concerned with nail varnish and boys
that frequented coffee bars. Safe,
undemanding squares, dishes
or dodgy types that one could not
conceivably take home to meet
one’s mother. Yours of the 10th inst
one’s mother. Yours of the 10th inst
or ult, We regret but
remain,
faithfully as dull as
business,
signed, Bold Flourish,
the company.
By night, though, as the darkness crept
around them and the office air
was as still as the atmosphere
the moon was said to have, a lone
typewriter, Miss Bentley’s or Miss
Braithwaite’s that were Smith-Coronas,
would sing old songs, hymn tunes sometimes,
to itself while the others slept
with no sub-conscious of their own,
at most lines from invoices or
reminders they couldn’t forget.
