Doorway
This
public passage from street to inside,
A
portal into commerce,
Its
shining steps, and marble facings,
Its
heavy glass doors, its lobby and gaping atrium,
People
in and out, coming and going,
Busy
thoroughfare for business,
And
those there by appointment.
Open
by day, inviting, warm and welcoming,
Drawing
in customers, callers and couriers,
A
doorway beckoning easy entry,
Its
corporate face smiling outwards into sunlight,
Beyond
solid security guards standing sentry,
Later
closing, and locked up for the night.
After
hours it’s quiet, deserted, no longer used,
Unlit,
unfrequented, darkened, but mostly dry,
The
entryway blocked off at night-times,
Tall-ceilinged,
an ingle in the gloom,
Reduced
to a cul-de-sac,
Three
sides of a room,
Sheltered
from the wind, and the worst of the cold,
A
personal, private dead-ended space.
Such
unfashionable accommodation,
At
the heart of the West End,
But
welcome nevertheless:
Singles
only, I’m afraid -
No
mattress, no breakfast,
Bring
your own bedding and towels,
Lacking
any en-suite,
Early
check-out on week-day mornings,
If
not woken by passing feet,
Or
a copper to move you along.
Regular
haunt for those on the street,
A
good spot if you’re in the know,
Safer
than shelters or hostels,
When
there’s nowhere else to go.
By
first light, it’s change-over time again,
Turning
back into the same old place,
Where
a care-taker sweeps away the night’s rubbish,
And
the building resumes its implacable face.
No comments:
Post a Comment