Poem

Sunlight striking from an angle upon wet slates
seizes from daily rails the minds behind
the faces behind newspapers, floating them
high above blackened girders, stained brick arches,
factories frail as cartons, sweeps of roofline like
the patterns left in sand when the tide ebbs,
to that if-only space where all might turn. . .
Until, the terminus's dark lid sliding
over, trains draw in; lives reassume their frames.

"That's Mr Sims's office. He's in charge.
But off this week having all his teeth out.
So meanwhile we've got Eric. He's all right.
When he's all right. Here's what we do in here,
we match these delivery-notes with invoices,
checking the quantities, we mustn't pay
for more than what we get. So query all
...