Deaf to the clack of all elected tongues
that yelp from benches and boke promises,
he stares at a tie, a rope, that claw
slapping shut his file. Freed, he runs from eyes,
bombs the building, coffins the mouths
that mouth and mouth of jobs that don’t exist.
The affluent air asphyxiates. The sun
paces about its cage. He takes the wrong turn
into a street of screeching birds, shuts out
the light, burrows through the sheets. His fist
could crush this town and smash its face.
(The file is stamped, passed on, marked a case
for action.) The wardrobe creaks its welcome home,
fingers of darkness fumble at his throat.
Peter Adair lives in Bangor, Co Down. He has been a freelance writer, BBC script reader and bookseller. He is now on disability benefit.