At The Standard
       

I cried all morning, said Francesca.
It's bad, I said. It's bad, came her echo.
Wrong world. A pint of Becks please,
this to the barmaid, and a cure for hay fever.
Get pregnant, she says. It works. Wrong
crawls all over the menu here. Spoilt
when our wallet spills. Once, we had
powsowdie, then microwaved macaroni.
Now our buns are glazed, omega seeds
are scattered. Make the profiteroles large
to share. That polecat rubs his mitts
in number ten. There is summer slaw,
kale pesto. Everything comes smothered.
Skin-on. Quinoa rules this establishment.
Standard. Sourdough, stout-cured, heritage.
I picture Cameron, ginger ale ketchup
infecting the razored gant where his chin
might have developed. I've heard of it,
is the most he can offer on disbelief.
Deep in the caliphate, knives are whetted.
America boils on borrowed gas. Baby gem
sounds tasty, but I long back sussed
that life is largely lies swanked up
and fed to you cold. Dearie me, fuck this.

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Copyright © 2017 Roddy Lumsden All rights reserved
from New Boots and Pantisocracies
Smokestack Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission