Food Bank. 

I offer my deposit with grievance,

flat palmed and open
I pay my mortgage with
tinned veg and harvest fruit.

My shoulder holds up twenty-seven
storeys, neediness an opiate
for penthouse no-faces. 
Brothers and sisters clasp
digits onto children’s necks
applying pressure. 

Vaults, dusty and grey
offer tin and wicker. 
Gold, silver and bronze
spent an eternity ago
on drinks with lunch
and white powder nasal spray
for clients. 

I spend my macaroni and cheese,
cylindrically sloshed on one
more days life. Eagerly anticipating
the dilution of the blue wave. 
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1918 and all that. 

All those years ago I shook

off student apathy, joined
my friend and marched. 
We marched in solidarity,
joining hands and minds
fist pumping in the same
money grabbing direction. 
I think of our fresh faces
thrown by the three wise men
from polling booth number one
into number two. We thought we
could smudge yellow paint in through
the letter box at number ten. 
We did but our fingers became trapped
and the yellow mixed with the blue
not making green. 
Later I wondered whether we did
anything at all, whether that piece
of paper fell away behind a dusty cabinet
from 1979. 
Systematically I think
we’ll just not vote for the same faces 
and the amalgamation of
Blueredorangegreenyellowpurple
We’ll tell them we aren’t happy. 
Eventually.