With each passing year we were granted access
at a higher level, key-cards swapped for thicker,
more laminated plastic, more personal details
included, less grainy pictures – although ageing
did come into it, and made us feel not bad,
but uncomfortable, queasy even, as if comparing
several photos would produce the sudden sinking
sensation accompanying a lift finding its floor.
Of course we were glad of all the added mod-cons,
and I guess somewhere, someone, thought somewhat
more of us – yet the interior changed very little.
The paint from the last coat was barely dry.
I got some on my jacket brushing past it this morning,
and now perhaps others will guess at it; I don’t
have time to run it through the machine. I sorted
my face out and used the moments I had left
to blow upon the walls a little more fiercely,
fetch a hairdryer, more sunlight – anything.