Until Further Notice
by Mark Cassidy
the sky will be yellow. Regardless how you squint at it,
tomorrow shrivels up
and men in branded, hi-vis tabards will have permission.
Don’t ask what for, or why,
or seek to demonstrate some other way. There are new
laws they’re not afraid to use.
Until further notice you will be crippled with bunions, grow
deaf from ear wax.
Your teeth – on a diet of kitsch and fakery – will rot in your
head and fall out.
As you wait you can watch the concrete crumble, while
grievances congeal like old chip fat.
Until further notice you must guess your best line through
the flooded potholes, trusting
your tread will ride the shameless lie beneath – the one
untold. Do not be deflected,
none of this is your fault. Blame loafers by Prada,
Timberland boots, the endless drone
of glib apology. Round the corner, a shadow cabinet of
wax figures –
you will hear from them soon. Until further notice there
may be no better choice.
