Breaking News

We interrupt this poem to bring you reports
of an explosion

of wild untruths and other signs that the news
is broken.

Early indications from those who were first
on the scene

have led to widespread fears of another Sweden
or Bowling Green

and that peace might erupt at any moment
in other places.

It is believed that amongst the rubble of reality
were found traces

of humanity and an understanding that stretches
beyond borders.

Many experts predict this will lead to a new wave
of presidential orders

for such trumped-up charges form part of
a familiar pattern.

But back to the poem: we’ll bring you more news
as it doesn’t happen.

The Casualty

You look at me as if you know me.

You should.

I was the boy in series four whose finger became trapped in the Jenga tower.
I was the troubled teenager in series nine bitten by the rabid stoat.
I was the aging footballer in series fifteen with the fractured perm.
I was the middle-aged supermarket manager in series twenty-two crushed under cereal packets.
I was the pensioner in series twenty-seven who swallowed his grand-daughter’s lego brick.

But you can never quite place me.

For I am the extra you watch but never see.
The one you know but don’t know.
I exist at the back of your mind, at the edge of your consciousness,
on the tip of your tongue.

I am the casualty.