The traditional pattern
of a set to for Nomark is this:
against the backdrop of the giant grift
perpetrated by the grand smug *****
he firmly grasps the wrong end of the stick
which, to be fair, is waved at him enough

A poster child for impotent rage
he’ll berate the checkout staff
about a voucher that’s either expired
or, mired in labyrinthine small print,
doesn’t amount to a free diddly squat

Without the words, the means,
the agency to upbraid the bosses
he huffs home on an overcrowded bus
where not a single other ****** wears a mask

A sideline:
Nomark stands on a horizon
governed by others
and has no fingers of his own to point

Every misbegotten instinct
tells him to run
from these verbose prigs,
but instincts are felt
not read or heard

Nomark squints as there is sun rising,
in colours that chafe
like eighties underwear
that didn’t breathe

He tries breathing
on his own awhile