MON copy


He is not a good looking guy
nor is he strong or quick.
He will not make you laugh
and his words are never serious.
Clichés hang loose around his shoulders
like a shirt that doesn’t fit.
He protrudes from them
just as his wrists protrude from his sleeves;
too far and not far enough.
Life is thick rimmed behind those glasses
and it is slowly falling blind to itself.
The chattering phone calls,
the gridlock spreadsheets,
the common click in the plastic lunch box,
the taste of bread,
the purr of paper,
the hum of air conditioning,
the tuneless crow of the traffic,
the ticking regular faces,
the clockwork city,
the clocks,
the seconds,
the years,
the next
and the one after that.

The pages are blank and
The hands that hold them are numb nothing.
The scene is drab and sad like disappointment,
like weather.

We shall not stir a storm for him,
we can only hope he forgets the colour grey.
We can only call out his name from across the office
for he is
a word said over and over,
familiar and forgotten.

We can only listen as he loses distinction from the silence.


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