Between the click clacking of keyboards,
and smells of freshly minted prints
wafting from the copy room,
Over the electric hum of incandescent lights
hanging from the ceiling,
the melodies of calypso music pumping can be heard,
from my right as Mr. Horacio sits in his office—his Sony cassette player rabbit ears bent out of shape,
straining to catch the sounds on Guyanese airwaves.
His fingers tap along to the delightful tune,
his wrinkles stretch and shrink over silent words
mouthed along to lyrics felt inside the heart.
“Haynes,
article ready?” He calls through louvres
inset in greenheart walls.
“Yes chief,
right deh in de folder” comes my quick reply.
“Alright son,” I hear back,
then its calypso music again.
