Tell me what you’re hearing, what’s tilted your weak chin down

To the greasy terracotta tiles to match a down-turned lip?

Has your oversized jumper sealed you up, in a lemon hem,

Dusted down to vintage like those Levi’s grate your hip?

Beneath headphones, a maroon cap sits, casting crescent shadows

Over robin down and blackbird curls, over crow’s feet bordered eyes.

Tear-drop blue, they simmer in the steam, crying avocados,

Rank. Your couscous on rye sogs up when it cries.

The melancholy is silenced by the ping. The pop. And it’s done.

It bleats its blunt goodbye. Back to anonymity he retreats,

Re-joining the background actors, intrepid, he eats alone.

The spotlight finds another nursing pasta and cold meats.

And I wonder is it advisable to be so pathetic

As to find yourself enamoured by such a bland aesthetic.