Win, win, the cleaner informs me
The big boss is still 'ere
Peering through venetian
Get on with some work
The shredding of months
The erasing of a numerical soul
Our footsteps, now failing to defy the nine plus metres per second
Attempt success in top-heaviness
The balmy wind awaits us
Will reward our entry
Into a ceiling sky
Our cardigan wrappers
Scarf knots and
Mop gloves
Will remove themselves and
Will greet us warmly
With a series of goodbyes