Sophistication

I wish I was sophisticated, like those people in the adverts who drink Campari and have spotless, airy kitchens with Nespresso machines, and cycle on cobbled streets, grinning at each other like demented mannequins.

Perfect couples, two blond kids
(always one of each)
hand-in-hand at sunset,
walking on the beach.

Clothes they’ve never worn before
and never will again.
‘Don’t wander off, One of Each,
we’re dining at The Pen.’

‘Hurrah for top-class dining!
Shall we have Perrier?
We so enjoy the bubbles,
don’t we, sibling dear?’

‘Time to go now, Perfect Kids,
to sample more rewards,
thanks to mother’s air-miles
and my platinum credit cards.’

Instead of which, my life’s a bitch
and I sit here all alone,
in the dark sophistication
of my leaky mobile home.


 

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