The Year of the Horse

after Giles Goodland

Twentysomethings geeked out over the World Wide Web
while polyamorous malware circled in hoodies.

Green-collar workers looked for a connection between hand gel
and transmissible spongiform encephalopathies.

Thatcher toppled like a graven image and I wrote a school news
report on her fall, gleefully dictated by my mum.

I met a large grey bear in a South London hospital. Microplastic
props accumulated in McMansions. Dad died.

The crime wave was high with muggings mysterious. Earth
waited for a shout-out from air formerly known as wall.

I would have given anything for a stick blender, or a soundbar,
or a black hat, or a lithium-ion battery.



Fine Music

the rabbi’s daughter let me try on her swimsuit
...