Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Through the office doors a woman and man
walk, through the Liverpool Street commuters,
to a cab. He complains ‘I had a date
all fixed up before this meeting was called’.
He’s a nice young colt, sometimes she spoils him.
‘Go to her then. I’ll take this one myself’.
He lopes towards the tube. She climbs in,
checks papers, make-up, hair. Sighs. November’s
darker than you think at twenty past six.

The meeting is at a Park Lane hotel.
The receptionist gives her the number
of a bedroom. This is not expected.
A conference room or a quiet bar,
but not this. She hesitates by the desk
for several minutes. On the other hand
she’s met clients in hotel suites before,
just never on her own, never at night.
Through an arch someone plays Stormy Weather.

Since a male director would not think twice
she takes the perspex lift, presses eighteen.
On each red-plush and gold-swagged level
couples dressed for evening wait to descend.
The client she’s met once opens the door,
shakes hands, introduces his friend mixing
cocktails and they sit down. Except the friend.
She reflects it’s well she has her heavy
briefcase, not the soft attaché number.

The discussion starts. Nothing has altered
since last time. She repeats the conditions
they must meet and wonders where in the file
it states their nationality. A second
time she refuses a drink, and a third.
Friend becomes agitated, tuts, insists.
She shuts her case and leaves. Not shaking hands.
Polite but quick. Low lights in the empty
corridor shine like blusher on her heels.