Meeting My MP In The Street

The kind of day that urges you to observe.
Learn what time-kissed Victorian bricks exist –
drink and reminisce above the high street.

Soar for a while, before hooked back to ground.
Our Member of Parliament is storming down
that beloved stretch of patterned cement.

Stand fully charged. A magnet waiting for contact.
Sockets analyse wicked entourage as my options
start flicking through a Rolodex of responses.

There’s an influx of questions, injustice and inquiries.
Like all those stories stuck in permanent sun dawn,
meaning there’s always hope but never warmth.

Polished black shoes now by the ironic news-
agents. I contemplate resorting to expletives
but fear irrelevance like a rampaging elephant.

Then in fantasy fireworks, my sparkler drowns.
A rebellious town resident repelled without glance.
Reduced to the rosette on that expensive lapel.

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