THE OFFICES OF DEATH

I work in the offices of death and often wish I could leave.

If I slipped away then I could be insouciant;

that’s cool and is my favourite recent word.

In dreams, after I leave

I creep around outside the offices of death,

sifting through the wreckage

where platitude peddling hacks are the gurus of surveillance

With bunches of fuschias, my mother’s favourite flower, in my hand,

I impertinently plant seeds of olive trees

moistening them with tears I have collected

from fifty unusual places on whirlwind visits made before the age of sixty.

I ratify a peace treaty about feeling beauty and truth

There are plenty of desolate places where these are needed.

I tell everyone inside the offices of death

to come outside and stand still under the abandoned blue sky

to press the flesh of shaking monsters,

and then say “let’s see a show of clean hands”;

oh, and in your half-hour lunch break

don’t forget to eat your chargrilled vegetables

and other commodities pillaged from distant lands.

Towards dusk there will be chill out songs

and scarlet breasted birds will rest their bodies against the green

where everyone can recycle New Year promises,

There will be gecko-butter sandwiches,

goodnight kisses under a magic moon.

In the morning after no-one will return

to the grey offices of death.

Instead, red balloons and yellow kites will be caught in the swell of the fresh wind
as people race and swerve with laughter to chase after them.

These will be their new targets for the working day

from those like me, who have to-day resigned from the offices of death.

Copyright remains with me the author Philomena Ewing