The Warehouse
All the walls are windows, but opaque From all the years they’ve been here, all the dust, So up on the top steel girders I can hardly Detect the twitching tail of a Norway rat, The last of my certainties surviving still, Feeding on a few brave mice perhaps. The rest is just the universal mess – old pots or rivets, half-strung violins, sandwich wrappers crumpled round their half-eaten contents,
