The chronic whines of infants reverberate

across deserted aisles and downstairs

to the messy, disjointed window displays

where mannequins stand, oblivious to life.

 

The clunking wheels of clothes rails rattle and spin

as if indifferent to their direction

and each agonising screech of coat hangers

evokes a newfound sense of desolation.

 

Chart hits play over and over on repeat -

without a sense of their place in history –

until yesterday, today and tomorrow

blur into one tedious Ed Sheeran track.

 

The conversation in this environment

is as inconsequential as the wages

though passive aggression and unfulfilled dreams

are among the additional incentives.

 

These are the sights and sounds of education

yet they seem distinctly unfamiliar.

I’d heard of the university of life

but no one had informed me of the start date.

 

Meanwhile, the t-shirts in the kidswear section

depict cartoon characters with beaming smiles

mocking the unrelenting reality

that they will never have to come to terms with.

 

Their vibrancy earmarks them as outsiders

who look strangely distorted and out of place.

But I digress. The jeans need hanging up

and the changing rooms are a total bombsite.

 

Yet though the honour would otherwise be mine,

I already have a prior engagement

for getting in two whole minutes late. I stare

into space while something critical is said

 

and when the verbal butchery is complete

I write down “I agree” in a small column,

demonstrating the guile and creative craft

of an English Literature graduate.

 

To top it off, I jot down my signature

in my neatest, most immaculate handwriting -

Signing this sheet, as I did my life away

when the £6.10 an hour offer was made.

 

But at least they gave me this snazzy lanyard

which hangs gracefully around my neck. Sometimes

it reminds me of an albatross or noose,

and weeks of wondering who the fuck I was.

 

My lanyard’s served its purpose and done its time.

I still look at it every day for a sense

of perspective. It’s a timely reminder

of what nearly, so nearly, could have been.

 

(c) Neil Robertson.2017