by Julia Rampen

I am dead. They will find me poised
in creaky elevation, heart empty
but for three business men. Shabby suits
from out-of-date lives, last voices.

My last seconds. I heard those mutters
so many times before. It wasn’t my fault.
I was a kaleidoscope once; plush and mirrors
that cotton print girls dreamed through;

at dawn the doorman polished away
a myriad of glimpses.

The different floors had different scents. Remember,
the Junior offices were inky fish and chips.
Old perfume drifting down from Sales; the boss
trailed nicotine and lashes of gin.

The basement stank of rainy nights
and emptiness.