1978
by Stephen Paul Wren
We sing Grease songs, make daisy chains.
I grasp nettles, make my hands sore.
Teresa finds Mrs Dixon.
The trees are young and fit and strong.
Outside, the field, a chaos spreads.
The milk is stolen from our schools.
Rise up the property ladder.
Concorde is flying overhead.
The treadmill is licked. No problem.
The punks know something of the truth.
The mildew on walls. Broken hearts.
Yes, the injustice of it all.
