Working Week Poem by Aaron Marchant

Once again, we resume our role in the theatre
of stoic, vapid conversation and waterless tears
A polite dance around anything of substance or emotion
The thin wage packet at the end of the month,
affords a bottle's worth of torpid amnesia

Ghosts of dreams, long since traded for reliable subsistence,
must be silenced and exorcised
We have slain the contemptible youth with fluvial eyes
who spoke of love and justice
We must have the good grace to mourn discreetly