There's trouble brewing in my neighbour's eye:
loneliness, like a shock,
prickling the back of his neck,
and he, no more than I, has the answer.
'These are troubled times,'
we exclaim without speaking,
now his curtains drawn,
now mine.
Madness is stalking our buttons,
eager to snaffle them up,
cheap or dear. Even the zippers
have gone to join an international cartel.
What Marx left out of the equation
was spite, and despair. There are some
who would rather crack heads
than watch their profits rise.