Frank

All the doorknobs shine.
All the corridors are white.
And I am Frank. Frank Martin.

Sometimes I’m not sure
who I am. But today
I’m Frank. I'm Frank

walking along a white corridor
in my white hat
admiring my reflection
in the doorknob's golden gleam.

I was not always like this.
I worked on a farm and whistled
and had more hair.
I was easy-going and married
to Jean.

I follow the corridor
and think of Jean
alive under the button moon
and of my brother who hanged himself.

Did I introduce myself?

I’m Martin. Martin Frank.
They call me Mr Martin.
Settle down Frank, they say.
Getting my name wrong.

Someone is eighty today.
I’m ninety
and was not always like this.

I miss Jean.

Once I came home from work, tired,
and she said, ‘Get the coal in Frank.’
She hadn’t even made the fire.
I swore.

We laughed about it
afterwards.

Sometimes I drive my knuckles into my face.

Sometimes I drive my knuckles
into my face
and wonder where I am.

Do you like my hat?