Brian Bilston
After the ministers, it was the desk lamps.
These are dark days, they said as they made their way out,
We are no longer prepared to make light of it all.
The filing cabinets filed out next, followed by
the laser jet printers, the adjustable footrests,
and the fridges stocked with wine.
In-trays went out. Tables turned, too.
Stationery cupboards unstationed themselves
and office chairs told him to swivel.
The wallpaper peeled itself off in protest.
Gilt-edged mirrors offered looks of resignation
while the clocks called time.
In every room, the Georgian panelling
unpanelled itself. Persian carpets curled up,
rolled out the door and down the street.
Along the staircase, the former Prime Ministers
made a dash for it from their frames,
seeking sanctuary in the National Portrait Gallery.
We want nothing more to do with this,
hissed a radiator, tearing itself off a wall,
while the boiler exploded with rage.
In the entrance way, four Corinthian columns
withdrew their support before the whole tired building
trembled and finally collapsed in on itself.
