4 POEMS ABOUT ME AND BABY RED SLEEVES
1.
Oh to be in love with blessed baby red sleeves,
no bad smells from the fabric,
Kentucky fried chicken left-overs
from the weekend shift, their eating habits,
takeaway tinfoil wrappers infiltrating the hairs
inside your nostrils, brain,
no irritations to your sensitive nostrils,
sneezing fits,
everything in one place, composed, clean –
all your investment strategies coming off,
a rich, fat wage and respect in retirement,
enormous cabbages on your allotment,
when I get there –
first find a safe work area, no hazards,
apply the brake,
secure Velcro straps,
everything clean, very hygienic –
no health and safety issues, loose straps.
2.
A delightful Mini York Container,
hard to resist or beat,
even when I’ve got my eyes shut –
I’m getting rewarded, just over £10 an hour,
for my limited effort at packet sorting,
building baby red sleeves
for the Post Office, late shift,
when all I require is less pressure, fuss,
stress, more time to relax and enjoy myself –
stop the loss of full-time jobs,
no more job losses –
please baby red sleeves, please.
3.
I blame Theresa May
in her plump necklace of pearls,
leopard-skin shoes,
the rising cost of inflation,
no increase to my wages,
corrupt Conservative government,
my rising bile, contempt for Mullers milk,
yoghurt and sour bread, about to puke.
Mullers strawberry rice.
Working in a safe area, no infringements
from managers, sharp plastic straps,
bad brake mechanisms, no labels –
a workforce facing redundancy,
zero contract hours, threat to pensions.
4.
I want a bright, spectacular,
full of exploding fireworks, future,
where I can stay drunk all the time
on whiskey, listening to Canned Heat,
Rollin’ And Tumblin’ –
PPI, hand-stamping, meter, mixed packet mail,
no more Mini York Containers, propaganda,
all the correct procedures, health and safety,
shifts, working patterns, spectacular –
I’m in love with baby red sleeves.
Simon Robson
Bindweed Magazine 