Mr Pryce in twelve is not back yet,
Janice had written, going off at eleven,
then float correct, the lift stuck on the third,
and signed it J, and left the keys to me
till she was back at seven. At one his wife
came to the desk in his jumper, so I read
Mr Pryce in twelve is not back yet
straight off the page to her, and she went to bed.
At twenty to three he tried the kitchen door, wet
with harbour rain. A tenner. Never saw me, all right, pal?
And I said nothing, which is what I'm for,
and when she rang at half past three I read
Mr Pryce in twelve is not back yet

with him asleep in his good shoes on the settee,
and liked how she believed me. At five he woke
and went up past the desk to her. Good lad, he said.
And I said nothing, which is what I'm for.
Room seven rang at ten past five: the woman in twelve
was crying through the wall. Pipes, I wrote.
He'd left his reading glasses, one arm taped,
face down on the cushion. I checked the book:
Room nine wants waking at a quarter to six,
so I went up and woke the man in nine,
a contractor here all week, who thanked the door.

At seven I signed. Janice, still in her coat,
read the night back to me, line by line:
the float, the lift, the pipes,
Room nine wants waking at a quarter to six,
and under Lost Property: reading glasses, lounge
settee. Return to twelve.