The last laugh be
on the gulag-corporate
cronies
who stifle their years
turning bigger men’s trade
in hope to engrave
a pension
by smashing each
joyous, consensual village
into a dreck
of sizzle-fat glitz-drab
like-logo bars
and cuisineries.
May their kids,
their laughter,
their photos rot
In the gap between
the gunge-crusted grill
and the fat-grey tray,
while the microwave spins
the sick-bag
and the nacho morsels
congeal
in the gloopy dips.
My great granddaughter,
I bless your unwrapped
food, the efficient heat,
the cheap plate-carrier.
Without me, my love,
none of this would be:
no hostile setting,
no uglies on the menu,
no fake fireplace.
Without me, my lovely
great granddaughter,
there would be no
top 40 music while
you eat, nor no football.
You’d only have your friends.
(David McLintock)