Here he lies,
below table 52,
and every time a stiletto jars
into the faded lettering of his name
Tongues from different wavelengths
fight to be heard.
He’s trying to sleep,
thank you very much,
he’s six feet under,
doesn’t care much for lunchtime.
He gets rattled to the core by the Bakerloo line.
Death settles below their feet,
above their heads.
Every Saturday at 7:40,
ten minutes into the orchestral recital,
a foot comes down
taps out the beat of the symphony,
and the cores of his grey bones run warm.