There is no poetry here

“Perhaps this is the day…”

“Perhaps ideas will spring like blades of grass
Pushing forth from winter 's fall…”

“That moment of sheer joy…”

There is no poetry here.
The peeling paintwork pushing down hope
Refrigerator fans battle with what might have been
Soothing music, in another place and time
Collectively failing to suppress
The thrum of a bus, outside

Kettle crisps and Tony's Chocolonely,
Cheery brands taking a stand against the Pepsi
Adding to the pretence of authenticity
Regular latte and an oat milk mocha
Distressed floorboards, bucket chairs
Unboxed pipework claiming its heritage

Hopeful people wait in line, reaching an epitome
Of frothy milk and a microwaved croissant
All so close to what they wish was real,
And yet, suppressing reality
Pigeons queue for crumbs outside,
They, too, know the drill

Is this it? Have we arrived?
Is this what sanctuary has become?
The modern glade captured, cauterised
Though the only snatch of green is otherwise buried
In Pantones, colouring the label of a
Sparkling flavoured water bottle

The rush of the grinder, beans revealing
Their essential aromas
The hunger for the immediacy of a hit
The only place left to take a moment, even if owned
By some corporation running a regional chain as a hobby farm

Distressed floorboards having their daily argument
Against shoe dirt. And there, a bamboo cup
Offers merchandising opportunities.
There is no poetry here.
But it’s all we have left
The apocalypse has happened
And we must take what remains
Where we can.