Mr, P. ordered his thoughts, scanned headlines
the subscriptions needed renewing
teen mothers cancer scares prognosis delivered on postcards
teenage gun rampage failed IT system
he read American poetry on the top of the bus, oblivious to the stares
the graffiti stunk.
extracts from his diary would be found:
“the last Roman left this land amongst artifacts buried covered
it would be funny if this was all an experiment
but how big the microscope?
how clean the laboratory?”
He possibly wrote it on auto-pilot as beads of sweat were produced in pot holes filled with lost cavers attached at the waist by frayed ropes