The massage room

In London's belly
Where the underground rumbles
Subterranean sepulchres mellow.

Buried prizes for an iron age king provide pillows for Roman rubble.
Conquerors' coins provide a bed
For a pilgrim's staff and fossilised banana peel from a Victorian kitchen.

Carving a space among the clamour of ages is a massage room.

Below winking neon, away from the noise, panelled in cheap imitation teak. Exposed water pipes hiss under caked emulsion.
Tired towels cover a bed of cheap wood and rashly stitched stuffing.
Classical windpipe tunes crackle from a CD player.

Someone's shoes sit together under a cabinet. In the cabinet is someone's makeup bag and an address book. On the cabinet are three shades of red nail polish, baby oil in a handy dispenser and Elizabeth Arden perfume.

The lamps are fringed in pink tissue paper and a Chinese calender hangs on the wall. Counting years in animals until two thousand and twenty three.
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