by Chloe Jacobs
An image far from original,
And yet I know capitalism has teeth;
If the coroner casts the bite marks on my skin
They will match the canines,
Molars and incisors of Student Finance,
And Tory jaws,
And the masticating bones of Jeff Bezos
And his space-bound millionaire friends
Burning notes in denominations I have never seen.
Polymer smoke, waterproof plastic power.
I will force my customer-service voice
Through my own teeth, gritted,
And offer deals through panic attacks.
On what layer of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs
Is Geoffrey Chaucer?
My cap and gown?
And simple human peace?
I am ageing like one of those time lapses;
An apple, red and shining,
Youthful wrinkles, immature rot,
This hideous adolescent decay.
Prop my eyes open after work
So they may stare
At blank verse.
My mother calls me her pension,
But I fear I will be my own.
Final lines of poetry. You see,
My next shift starts at two.