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'The Suicide'

And this, ladies and gentlemen, whom I am not in fact 
Conducting, was his office all those minutes ago, 
This man you never heard of. There are the bills 
In his intray, the ash in the ashtray, the grey memoranda stacked 
Against him, the serried ranks of the box-files, the packed 
Jury of his unanswered correspondence 
Nodding under the paperweight in the breeze 
From the window by which he left; and here is the cracked 
Receiver that never got mended and here is the jotter 
With his last doodle which might be his own digestive tract 
Ulcer and all or might be the flowery maze 
through which he had wandered deliciously till he stumbled 
Suddenly finally conscious of all he lacked 
On a manhole under the hollyhocks. The pencil 
Point had obviously broken, yet, when he left his room 
By catdrop sleight-of-foot or simple vanishing act, 
To those who knew him for all that mess in the street 
This man with the shy smile has left behind 
Something that was intact. 

Louis MacNeice