Cling Film

Oh for a world
Where I could still afford
To hate boiled broccoli;
Where the rice pudding
And cheese-sauce taste
The same;
Where the path to the playground
Is a hot concrete road
And the smell of warm rain
Unfallen floods up.
Scab up your knee-caps
The crust is familiar
I remember through cling-film
The freshness is lost.

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Posted in Dodgson, Poetry

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