She chose the sink she wanted for the flat reno.
Exactly what she was looking for,
But no dealer held it in stock.
And then she discovered the manufacturer’s head office
Was a couple of miles from me
So here I am. The offices are on the first floor
But on the ground the door opens from the crumpled car park
Onto a small display of their design range.
Or should do. Becalmed, I can’t
Get in as there’s no intercom button
To communicate with the shuffling shapes above.
There’s a scribbled landline number given
Where you can listen to muzak and press keys
And follow the instructions of robots
And glide from screen to screen
And, if your luck is in, talk to a guy
Who once led a team underground
(perhaps beneath this very spot)
To rescue and recover, but since redundancy
Has no idea where this current tunnel leads.
So there it sits, 3 metres away
Through tinted glass, in stillness,
Aloof with perfect lines, discernible
but unattainable.
Like a scruffy guttersnipe pressed
To the breathy panes of a Victorian sweetshop
I pause until this position becomes just too ludicrous to sustain.
Drizzle commences as I shuffle back to the car again
But I’m most annoyed by the fact that
Recidivous reality has dished up
Yet another metaphor for my life
As a hapless onlooker, marooned in retirement.
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Stephen A. Linstead
Photo credit: iStock
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