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!
