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When The Company Went Bust

Bruce Hodder

Night, black and starless, bleak across the fields,
surrounds the taxicab I had to call,
when I got to work, drenched, half an hour ago
and found that the warehouse was completely shut:
lights out, a traffic cone behind the turnstile,
and two men, bored inside the transport office,
on guard, preventing any theft of assets.
Windscreen wipers beat against the rain.
On both sides, the steep banks of the bypass rise;
trees bare-branched, malignant crones tonight.
One bank dips. I see a petrol station,
and McDonald’s golden arches in a pool of light.
We’ve passed the retail park. My driver mutters something.
I can only see his shoulder, and one ear, no more.
That suits me. I’m in a sort of film noir mood.
He mumbles his disgust at where the world is going,
the callousness of bosses. He speaks of ‘us’ and ‘them’.
I don’t answer. I’m too wet to put the effort in.
Feeling in my pockets for the fare’s enough.
I’ll think about the system after food and sleep,
maybe start a revolution when the shivers pass.

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