poem: three pounds of flax

if it's anything its this — the serenity within the surge — the weight of sweatshop labour in my moth-eaten fast fashion bed shirt — the four-by-four driver that saw me crossing but tore round the corner anyway — the kid who got excluded from my daughter's class yesterday for punching another boy in the face and his older siblings with their thin hooded jackets and xl bully at the gates — the posh kids getting mugged for their phones that they can't help but scroll through while walking through the alley behind sainsbury's — the political leaflets swirling around dumped kfc buckets and their bones strewn on the pavement for diviners to contemplate — the hatchling mayflies taking wing and the air thick with pollen and promises — the flying ants waiting in the wings for their moment to shine — the bird that I watched for a few seconds from the window and the five minutes I spent on google finding out it was a swift — how the morning's walking meditation was sweetened by uninvited thoughts about godzilla — how one can walk in such a deliberate way that you can experience the illusion of space moving through you instead of the opposite — the prospect of a tory at my doorstep and how it never ends well — saying sorry to tristan and closing the door gently as he protests my decision to end things early — the trick is to let it all go the moment you find yourself clutching it — how I'll miss the copper wires that arc from roof to roof — how they insist on connection — the crackling sound that gadgets used to make — how this poem will keep going forever — even after I've stopped writing it