FORTY POUNDS

by Robyn Banks

Is this vague dissent I feel?
Or apathy? Resigned to fates
Predicted, and foodbank meals,
By sociologists and states,

The high tower I was climbing
Has crumbled and fallen down.
My debt they say is rising
But I accept that now.

Forty pound train ticket, bent
In the back pocket of my jeans,
To protest at futures spent
On bankers, or the Queen.

Or someone who isn’t us
In a line from A to B
But there’s no trouble, there’s no fuss
There’s no picture of me.

On the cover of the Daily Mail
Throwing a brick at the police.
Too tired to say we’ve failed.
Too tired to fall asleep.

I return to walking cyber fields,
Tracing mice and men.
Freelance web design, and bills,
An elevator pitch, and then.

15 side hustles you can start this weekend!
Sell your old clothes,
Mend broken electronics,
Portfolio economy.
Sell yourself. Work all night.
Have it all.

Shiny orange card, torn up
To escape tomorrows reach.
I can’t afford a roach pad, but
I spent forty quid on this.

 Featured image via moneymagpie.com

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