Prayers and Pity

 London is a big big city, with big big men,

They sit in offices and count to ten.

Go for it, they said. Go for what? I asked.
You know, they said, you know full well.
I looked down at my papers as if I were being uncomfortably grilled by a Parliamentary Committee, fighting for my reputation as well as my livelihood.
The three men stared across at me, their faces reflected in the polished table. But who had polished it? My mind wandered, as was its wont. Concentration was ever my greatest weakness. I recalled the day I played toy post offices as a child, idly franking blotted postmarks. No swiping of cards in those ancient times. And today was no exception to my daydreaming.
I felt myself tugging out the sharp hankie that poked smartly from the top pocket of my suit, worn specially for this occasion. And, with it, I proceeded to erase a small mark on the otherwise perfect surface of the table before me. Maybe it was my own fault that the mark was there. Although I assumed that my papers were as clean as me. Not a blot even on the folded blotting-paper I kept in my back pocket. Not a stain even on my underwear, let alone on my character.
Go on, they urged wordlessly. Go on doing what? I silently replied.
The voices in my head were having their heyday. My being brought to book merged into the downward currents of God’s breath as the Devil simultaneously sucked in his cheeks. The last thing I heard was the gentle swish-swish of a bunny cloth being wiped across the lid closed above me.
No point in timesing anything to the nth power of pity,
No loose change for your pockets in countryside or city.
Comeuppance isn’t comeuppance at all, such a shame,
Not even thruppence for your prayers, nor tuppence for your fame.