by Guy Elston
A child is prostrate, head on the grass,
wailing in an all-consumed fury.
His parents stand over him at the edge
of the public golf course where
dogs get walked, his dad holding a knotted
plastic bag lump, his Mum a Gucci handbag.
They make no attempt to halt his cacophony.
Other walkers titter at the sight
of the hysterics and the silent resignation.
I share in the muted mirth.
Later, after a conversation with C
about her weight and my increasing hyper-sensitivity,
I reconsider. Maybe that kid had the right of it.
Golf is a facile pastime of a doomed society.
Picking up dog shit is good
but what about that plastic.
Designer handbags are sad and tasteless.
But these are merely symptoms
of a greater, innate condition;
the ludicrous atrocity of a life like ours
that won’t give us exactly what we want
when we want it,
So we moan to the grey summer sky.
Guy Elston is currently completing an MA at the University of Amsterdam. His poetry has recently been included by Anthropocene, Burning House Press and Indigo Dreams Publishing. He is newly on Twitter and would love to connect with other poetry lovers @guy_elston.