Whistling Frank

All the doorknobs shine.
All the corridors are blue.
And I am Frank.

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

walking along a blue corridor
conducting a mock-examination
of 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 easygoing and married
to Jean.

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

Did I introduce myself?

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

I miss Jean. I’m eighty-six
and was not always like this.

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.