STUFF trailed its tarnish across the Orient
then braved the oceans in first world gladwrap
like delusional human traffic.
STUFF squatted in a whorehouse warehouse
waiting for empty shelf-space, and the footfall
of an empty passer-by.
STUFF showed ankle in an email,
shoved its tongue in my High Street ear,
seduced me with sweatshop promises.
STUFF demanded its keep in energy,
whined for drawer space
and then crawled, feckless, onto my table top,
cheap plastic legs akimbo.
I looked it fresh in the eye and asked:
What do you want of me?
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Nina Parmenter
would be pleased to hear them.