Poised like an unsprung briefcase
deep in his figures room,
occasional tea the only human contact.
Let's talk of logarithms, Maths
and of grey never being the new black.
Stationery aligned, pen unsheathed,
the battle set – but no spectator sport this.
No drumroll greets the whir of his till-roll,
no audience to enrapture
with the speed of his calculator.
Day drips as the ink dries
on each non-wavering column.
Eraser crackles in cellophane,
white as freshly fallen snow
on a new unaccounted for day.
Published in Twenty-two Twenty-eight
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