Mr Brown’s debt stared him out.
It had the face of someone who didn’t want to be ignored.
It demanded attention: Me! Now!
He saw it everywhere.
He’d nailed himself to his debt.
But he was no consumer-addict or bipolar shopper.
Money had poured out of the holes in walls.
And each secretion had a string attached.
Still, during the flush of each spending-spree
He remained oblivious to money’s meaning.
Brown looked around the plush, sterile bank.
Saw an advert which yearned for student custom.
In this reception, like a catalogue interior,
There were settees to sink in to.
The smoothness and the unobtrusive light
Helped him relax a little.
On the surface, the manager was polite.
I must, at all times, be polite.
That’s what the training taught him.
A smile cracked, like a fissure,
Upon his blotched, pale face.
A nice smile.
The eyes betrayed another message.
That night, Mr Brown couldn’t sleep on his debt.
It infested his mind.
Picked away at each neurone.
When he closed his eyes, the debt remained.
Even in his dreams, it remained.
That morning, Mr Brown was found hanging by his debt.