The lifts at the BBC

They have speakers

which pipe in News 24
in a slightly-more-left-than-right-wing nod
to Nineteen Eighty-Four.

They’re shabby,
but it’s OK
because it’s the BBC 

and like a punk’s ripped jeans
you know ultimately
it’s a carefully chosen oversight.

At Level 3

I hold the doors open
for Nick Robinson;
he stands like a stalagmite 

in a steel cave, his Breitling’s tick
the drip-drip-drip of invisible water at his tip.

At Level 2

You merge with the lawyers –
their lanyards double-twisted
under sunken eyelids

each poured-over page
buoyant with
asterisks and dashes.

At Level 1

You reach the canteen,
and the scent of rubber and bacon;
steam christening

a 20-foot-long Bruce Forsyth quote
above a window,
and a cleaner, feeling like the eye 

of a media tornado.