November
2006
The Office Canteen
I work in the office canteen
Where the walls are blue & the borders green
And there’s so many suits without heads
And the air is obscene.
They surge through dim-lit tunnels from above.
A school of sorts at frenzied feeding time
Mechanical and mute, a carnal mime.
Gargoyle-like glares more sad than fierce look
Upon their bait: the vats of mince. The hook:
I catch their eye, they hunger for the stove.
And then the few that do not gorge on chips
Will swarm about the iron salad bar
(That formulaic sustenance bazaar)
Saliva wet for tuna-sweetcorn rolls.
I hand them fish and smile at watery holes
That quiver back, devouring their lips.
I work in the office canteen
Where the walls are blue & the borders green
And there’s so many suits without heads
And the air is obscene.
Decanting food from tin to box to bowl
Observing chewing - tuna, cod or cow
I dream of far-off fishermen and how
Their blue expanse is greater than the sky
That’s shuttered out of each unblinking eye
In this deep torture chamber of the soul.
Their bones and flesh submerged, they can’t be heard
But for in this canteen cannot be seen
(Consumers of cadaverous cuisine)
These suffocated humdrum headless hordes
All daily falling on their forks and swords
I make my humble theatre absurd.
I work in the office canteen
Where the walls are blue & the borders green
And there’s so many suits without heads
And the air is obscene.
Forever impressed.