The Song of Lunch

He leaves a message — a yellow sticky on the dead black of his computer screen "Gone to lunch. I may be some time". His colleagues won't be seeing him for the rest of the afternoon. Rare joy of truancy, of bold escape from the trap of work. That heap of typescript can be left to dwell on its thousand offences against grammar and good sense. His trusty blue pen can snooze with its cap on. Nobody will notice.