Lemon Blue Poem by Chris McCabe

We grabbed the handles of the shimmering zimmer of chance -
someone offered a box of matches called LEMON BLUE
from the stall that sold flint wheels attached to plastic steps
ridged to a range of coloured cylinders of gas. I cursed
my sloped brother of history - why hadn't he copyrighted
fire? Then came a text to say he was with whiskey & dancing
to light. I placed the phone face down on the Las Vegas
beermat, on the albino feline that never made Top Cat.
So I said to the one with only numbers behind their thoughts :
Give me something cloned to sell, to profit the sons of my only son.