In your shoes
The bag's bright pink, prawn cocktail
in clear script. We don't have prawns now
the sea is plastic soup. You wear shoes
so your feet don't touch the ground, make-believe
the past will be fixed by the future
as you throw it away. A life made bland by ease.
In your shoes, would I eat those crisps
for two minutes' worth intense sensation?
The sell by says 18 08 18.
Could you breathe outside, then?
I read there were birds that sang
and anyone could hear, for free.
Were there wild animals still?
Have you seen a real tree?