There you go again,
jogging my memory,
exercising my conscience,

climbing up the wall bars
of my guilt,
bench-oppressing me.

But then you can hardly talk,
snug in my wallet,
smugly wallowing.

You’ve got no excuse.
Your plastic companions
are always active.

See the healthy sheen
of my Boots
Advantage card,

my library card
limbering up,
lithe and ready,

and just look
at that debit card,
flexing its muscles once more.