It comes from the faucet
First right, outside his bedroom door.
It puts him in a place to remember
And he is too lazy to make it stop.
Instead his eyes fall on things nearby,
Photos of family, work colleagues and friends
Adorn a wall. A notepad with jotted comments:
A palimpsest of memories, lies on the floor.
Yesterday suddenly becomes something more.
Where, with eyes down and back bent over a desk,
He heard the office song. Fax machines, printers grumbled
As they toil. Peter shouted down the phone.
The entrance buzzer wents waking security guard James.
Somewhere Mark was in a meeting watching Katie
As she strutted past glass walls.
Karen the office manager moaned "Oh God, I'm going to die!"
While drinking Berocca and Coffee.
He had looked up from his desk
With only the trace of a smile
And acknowledged the peculiar thought
That Karen was right.
There will be no ink to fax, to print,
No buzzers or phones to ring,
No reason for Pete to shout,
No meetings for Mark to have,
The Berocca and coffee will be gone.
Even Katie in her cute skirt won't walk
And James will continue to sleep,
Except he won't snore .
Some birds landed on a window-sill,
briefly interrupting his thoughts.
Yes, they will have names forgotten,
Once the office has sung its song
Thirty, Forty, fifty years on.
Back in the bedroom of charcoal light
His breathing grows fast and short.
The photos against the wall, those
Paraphernalia of memory lose focus
And drift and blur and would scream
If they could be heard, but they are silent
And will never be more real.
He stumbles out of bed and
Shaking and sweating takes the
First right outside his bedroom door.
He returns, the faucet is off.
When he falls asleep
Paul doesn't shout, nor James snore
Karen has no hangover and Katie
Is ignored.
Drip is the sound of life,
But he dreamt of birds.
