He leaves a message, a yellow sticky,
on the dead black
of his computer screen:
gone to lunch. i may be some time.
His colleagues won’t be seeing him
for the rest of the afternoon.
Rare joy of truancy, of bold escape
from the trap of work!
That heap of typescript can be left to dwell
on its thousand offences
against grammar and good sense;
his trusty blue pen
can snooze with its cap on;
nobody will notice.
He shuts the door on the sleeping dog
of his own departure,
hurries not too fast along the corridor,
taps the lift button, and waits.
To meet even one person
at this delicate juncture
would sully the whole enterprise.
But he’s in luck:
the lift yawns emptily,
he steps in, is enclosed
and carried downwards
to sunlight and London’s
approximation of fresh air.
With one bound he is free!