The Day Gabo Died

It is 11 am in the morning
And I am flicking through some drawings
And spreadsheets that I know well
When the calendar reminds me
That I need to fill in
My hours of the week

It is a Friday and most of us
Are dressed casually and without care
Even my tight lipped neighbour
Is without a collar today
And talks about drinks and films
Are abound, though insincere

For lunch I pick up a sandwich
And mull over an orange and an apple
Before returning to my desk where
I receive a call about an exciting new offer
Which I ignore and quickly go through a web feed
That has his face on it

I am alone in my room now
The beginning of the summer break
The cupboard lies open and my hands
Excited and unsure
Brush through the titles inside
Before choosing to discover ice


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