Inside the safe, they are shelling.
The distance between me and the safe is about two metres.
The shelling intensifies.
A wind picks up, and some of the smoke -
hardly kaleidoscopic in grey, blue, and black -
escapes the leaden box.
Inside, one of them waves at me.
Inside, one of them waves to me.
Inside, one of them stops waving.
On the radio, I hear mangelwurzels are the new superfood.
The Primer Minister has eaten them,
says he credits his success to their vibrancy.
That, and cheating at Whiff-Whaff.
It's a choice between the radio and the safe.
[I wrote this poem in a Quiet Compere workshop, and performed it at a Quiet Compere poetry showcase.]
