Post, man!
JUST ABOUT TEN PAST CARING
If you’ve really had enough, here’s the door. But before
that, first here are your arms to support all body weight on
the sorry chair swivelling with your matt eyes, as you prepare
for landing on feet, which will do the voting, watching
and noting the boss’s neat reaction, a face that actually says,
it’s a loss, but Hell, losses can be replaced. Here’s the
walk between office-block and car. Here, in the wing
mirror, who you are. Here’s the thumb press on the fob,
the head and rear lights flashing on and off, the clunk, the
click, the forward rotation of the wrist, the sound of your
father wheezing his last, then ignition, a blast. Here, in the
foot well, your legs find the clutch and gas, an answer to
questions you haven’t yet asked. Here are the signs in
blue and white, the numbers that follow letter thirteen, a
picture-pretty scene worthy of an old master. Here’s a
gust of wind now, a last patronising pat on Beachy Head.
Here’s the shape your body makes, a cross: a bit biblical
martyr, more Olympic diver, your ungraceful descent. And
here’s the fiver I lost on the bet. Here’s the internet. Here’s
a church, here’s a steeple, open this web page, and here’s
some people who emailed to say, had your decision been
one to stick it out in a Churchill no need for girlie moping
about stylie, they think they would have been all right with
that. They’re pretty sure that would have been okay.
[%sig%]