Why are all the poets
writing dross about
buses and the death
of their imagination?

I'd change shop

if a baker sold me
half-baked bread
embodying bread'
s irrelevance or
my vintner wine
that didn't work.

The acrid smog
is burning my eyes;

and the clever boys
start start-ups
to sell us crap
we do not need

and cannot
as a race
afford.