Unbeknown to glibbing buyers,
these back-to-back ploys are simply borne
from a fundamental lack of smarts
that borrow-purloin nay border on
a fallow thinking instead of a cause,
no retiring flowers and Aldi walks.
When vinyl’s broke out so parties spawn
familial rapture, pull back the sofa,
stick Transmat twelves by the radiator
prop up the laser and centre the pitch,
appeal to tired years, feet dulled by concrete,
herding to partick others still fogged
in that hangered hunger for selfie shows.
It’s back to back, the thusk hour rolls
to serve up keffel by the score,
a chang of kerching from the ones and twos,
the sound of the metapacking gradual grind
to Sasha’d contracts; we live in hard times.