Lawrence Hall
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Forgive Me for not Writing Yesterday
I
was reclined before a bin of farriers’ tools
Ironmongery
smithied in shining steel
In a
room shaded institutional green
Fluorescent
lights, only one door
Gadgets
clipped to me, needles poked into me
Surely
soon would sound the voice of Number Two:
“Information.
We want information.”
Thinking
of pain, then poetry, then you
But
having a dying tooth extracted
Does
not lend itself to metre or rhyme!
