by Mike Cope
Sign in at security.
They don’t ask for your ID.
It’s a farce.
The bored man at the desk, poor sod,
ignores your smile and little nod.
(Kiss my arse.)
Glass and steel and sliding doors;
the lift-shaft goes to all ten floors
of this place.
It’s all angles, modern, hard,
square as the holes on an IBM card...
in your face.