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in the snack bar - edwin morgan - nat5

Quiz by matilda456
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Last updated: January 2, 2024
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First submittedJanuary 2, 2024
Times taken1
Average score70.5%
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Answer
a
cup
capsizes
along
the
formica,
slithering
with
a
dull
clatter.
a
few
heads
turn
in
the
crowded
evening
snack
bar.
an
old
man
is
trying
to
get
to
his
feet
from
the
low
round
stool
fixed
to
the
floor.
slowly
he
levers
himself
up,
his
hands
have
no
power.
he
is
up
as
far
as
he
can
get.
the
dismal
hump
looming
over
him
forces
his
head
Answer
down.
he
stands
in
his
stained
beltless
gaberdine
like
a
monstrous
animal
caught
in
a
tent
in
some
story.
he
sways
slightly,
the
face
not
seen,
bent
down
in
shadow
under
his
cap.
even
on
his
feet
he
is
staring
at
the
floor
or
would
be,
if
he
could
see.
i
notice
now
his
stick,
once
painted
white
but
scuffed
and
muddy,
hanging
from
his
right
arm.
long
Answer
blind,
hunchback
born,
half
paralysed
he
stands
fumbling
with
the
stick
and
speaks:
‘i
want-
to
go
to
the-
toilet.’
it
is
down
two
flights
of
stairs,
but
we
go.
i
take
his
arm.
‘give
me-
your
arm-
it’s
better,’
he
says.
inch
by
inch
we
drift
towards
the
stairs.
a
few
yards
of
floor
are
like
a
landscape
to
be
negotiated,
in
the
slow
setting
out
Answer
time
has
almost
stopped.
i
concentrate
my
life
to
his:
crunch
of
spilt
sugar,
slidy
puddle
from
the
nights
umbrellas,
table
edges,
people’s
feet,
hiss
of
the
coffee
machine
voices
and
laughter,
smell
of
a
cigar,
hamburgers,
wet
coats
steaming,
and
the
slow
dangerous
inches
to
the
stairs.
i
put
his
right
hand
on
the
rail
and
take
his
stick.
he
clings
to
me.
the
stick
is
Answer
in
his
left
hand,
probing
the
treads
i
guide
his
arm
and
tell
him
the
steps.
and
slowly
we
go
down.
and
slowly
we
go
down.
white
tiles
and
mirrors
at
last.
he
shambles
uncouth
into
the
clinical
gleam.
i
set
him
in
position,
stand
behind
him
and
wait
with
his
stick.
his
brooding
reflection
darkens
the
mirror
but
the
trickle
of
his
water
is
thin
and
Answer
slow,
an
old
man’s
apology
for
living.
painful
ages
to
close
his
trousers
and
coat-
i
do
up
the
last
buttons
for
him
he
asks
doubtfully,
‘can
i-
wash
my
hands?’
i
fill
the
basin,
clasp
his
soft
fingers
round
the
soap.
he
washes,
feebly,
patiently.
there
is
no
towel.
i
press
the
pedal
of
the
drier,
draw
his
hands
gently
into
the
roar
of
the
hot
Answer
air.
but
he
cannot
rub
them
together,
drags
out
a
handkerchief
to
finish.
he
is
glad
to
leave
the
contraption,
and
face
the
stairs.
he
climbs,
and
steadily
enough.
he
climbs,
we
climb.
he
climbs
with
many
pauses
but
with
that
one
persisting
patience
of
the
undefeated
which
is
the
nature
of
man
when
all
is
said.
and
slowly
we
go
up.
and
slowly
we
go
up.
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