Leave the wooden box
The bright red door
Autumnal leaves
Blowing through
Weekend workers
Trudging back to padlocks
Writing essays on
Worsening conditions
Social media taxi fare
Paid for in plastic
Not plastic, speculative
Cultural beeps
Instant transactions
An eye for an I.D.
Hands to yourself
Young one
Lest we forget
To remember
Sundays aren’t for
Clothes anymore
We’ve moved on
My hands control
The buttons
But I don’t understand
The seams


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