I’m on this
most of every day –

emails, blogging,
social media,

fake and
real news,

where that next missile
will land,

the absurd words on
how to stop it all –

and I miss thirty odd
years ago:

queuing outside
for meat,

the butcher riding me
about teachers’ holidays,

queuing outside
for bread,

fresh smells sliding
along the long line,

bottled milk each day
at the front gate

and so seeing Bill – old
Luxton – at his shop

in town, tallying in a
note-book with a pencil,

adding up what’s owed
in real numbers.