a sonnet on capital, because why not

I’m far too old to say I don’t fit in. I pay for music, have a favourite knife; I clean the shower tray and change the bin on Sunday nights – a regulated life.

I’m far too rich to say I don’t belong. The state knows where I live and what I do. The ads are sometimes right but mostly wrong (I don’t want cruises, cars, or great shampoo).

I’m far too old and rich to feel like this: the world at odds with everything that’s great; the voices in the air a vicious hiss; the hate turned into cash turned back to hate.

I’m old and rich enough to fail to fight. Not even rage – just note the dying light.