Poetry

In the study

I can tell by the worn tips of your fingers that you are no stranger to disciplined needlework.

You walk through a graveyard on your way to work, too. The slight smudge of clay soil on your boots, you see.

The only patch of earth between your boarding house and the factory where you are employed. Quick when one is late, I imagine.

Yes, I think you are often late. You arrived here two minutes late, with a flush to your cheeks. You wear no corset, your movements are too free. Easy to hasten. A common practice.

No, I haven’t been following you. I’m simply reading.

Now to the case at hand.