From reception

they followed stringboards

upstairs to the photocopying room,

through accounts,

into the main offices.

Miles of white cables


overpowering skirting boards,

pinned around door frames.

And where they came up short,

taped to woodchipped walls

or burrowed beneath fitted carpets –

those ripples never went back


quite the same. Superhighways

of glossy-coated wiring

off the spools of the intercom, computer

and telephone men I cursed

for gunning on another;

electricians bamboozled


by which were live. Few takers now

for packets of cable pins, backing up

on racks in hardware stores.

I miss them. We talk to ourselves

stepping about, the skirting tops

are ledges for dust.