Getting In Touch

With your inner gibbon;
Come on, chaps! Bruce knocks
Down the flipchart and
Lickety-split he’s
Scramble-loping through the hall
That links Deaths to Home
Eek-acking some Congo call
With his bum all hanging out
His pinstripes.
Bruce clatters past the print queue,
In-trays, potted ferns, past
Janice from accounts
Who sees through his cheeky japes and
Glimpses genuine simian rage in the full-stop pupils
Rolling round his nought
Point one percent genetically superior eyes
And for a day-long moment
She knows that there is always
A Janice from accounts
And she will only be remembered on birthdays
Then she screeches:
‘Daffid! Close the fucking window!’
But she’s sixty-five million years too late.
Bruce leaps out,
Misses the company flagpole and meets
A decidedly funky end
In the fag-flecked forecourt.

Back in the boardroom,
Someone coughs politely.
They gaze into the gap
Where, by rights, a presentation
Ought to be in full-swing.