2107: Future Proof

A bottle of red from our
petrol station – low ebb
if taken on – instead we
aim home [sober – lone
along puddled twittens
towards home] & back –
to be sat [& untouched –
as if it would ever now
happen] – tears’ll swell
easily in my eyes – here
is a guaranteed demise
in my semi-rural home –
silence’ll spiral ‘til a TV
channel is turned high –
this is not a worthwhile
life alone – greet me in a
hotel – meet me in a bar
of lights in Brighton – Is
it too much to pose to a
friend? But [none Left] I
ire at those local racists
[& all other equal voices
spat in a pub’s hubbub]

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