Another day, another tragedy.

In the premium capital gains grove, Where citizens who strove To prove their love For King and Country Once earned paltry wages, A public mockery of entitlement took place. They came from distant clans, Banging on pots and pans. Drumming an unearthly din While wearing earplugs: Shattering the spin. They can't pay the rent; The citizens dissent. Then, the rulers relent: "We won't give you a cent, But we'll give our assent to genocide." They spew out their garbage. The PM is away. Their secret meetings take place On land; on air; in space. The rusty brass band plays Broken-down melodies From bygone days The trade routes remain risky, Like that seventh or eighth whiskey. You mutter to yourself trying to sleep, But troubles creep upon your psyche. Then, briskly, the optimist's dreams recede. Empty noise and futile fury Evaporating fast, like suds From some bitching New microbrewery The squire; the shire; the working poor. World on a Wire: simulations of paradox As the oceans perspire And fire rages on the Port Hills. Technocrats acquire their birthright. Another day, another tragedy. Amanda Riddell 6 March 2024