GOOD INTENTIONS

It was like a trial placement, 

she the employer, 

he the prospective employee. 

She sensed some real promise in his CV. 

And his personal statement was wonderful, 

but careful now, 

for words alone are not to be believed. 

Throughout the trial, 

she made his good intentions walk the line. 

On the forms he wasn't a smoker, 

yet he reeked of breath mints all the time. 

And those other qualities, 

the wit and patience he’d hinted at, 

were nowhere to be found. 

And as for him, 

the post had looked good on paper, 

but already the pension scheme looked iffy 

and the office hours never seemed to end. 

She’d claimed so many things 

that were blatant falsehoods, 

but he couldn’t run away, 

having cut off all his toes to fit her shoes. 

Each night she’d go through his file 

with a set of coloured pens: 

blue for true and red for false 

and green for annotations in the margins. 

Within a few months, the thing looked like 

a Jackson Pollock painting. 

Each night he’d lie awake 

with thoughts of resignation, 

long-term sickness, gross misconduct. 

But every morning would stay his hand: 

he’d seen the cracks, 

he’d seen the accounts, 

it wasn’t the decent thing to do. 

She took him on after the trial period, 

and they settled into their roles 

like patients settling into anaesthesia. 

And once in a while, 

one or the other would briefly come awake, 

straining against the gurney straps 

in a frenzied bid to escape. 

I hear she managed it in the end; 

gave him his marching orders, 

started hiring again. 

He had to take the train 

with all the trappings from his desk. 

Half way home they rolled off the mainline, 

the driver forced to take a rest. 

That evening she took the 6:05 

and watched as the city slipped by.  

A hopeful light shone down 

from the orange mackerel sky. 

She was free from him, 

and next time she’d take better care. 

For a moment, as she was drifting off, 

she could have sworn she saw him 

brooding in that siding there.