The drivers' room

There's no one here now,

12.43 pm on Saturdays

is an out-of-bound story

and out of character too,

just the illusion of coolness

spun by a fan rebelling 

against asbestos heat,

bunk beds stained with careless tea

men-less shirts 

in suicidal suspense 

broomless floors

lost matchsticks and ash

an office, nevertheless

and I

driver of an editor's car

member of a union

of three

wander on roads 

armed with highway code

shoo away the pedestrian

make way for a moment 

locked in amber

abandon work

and submit 

to blessed slumber.