In the Talking Shop
they spit out bones
which an auxiliary sweeps up:
they’re crushed and made into gloss
for the latest glamorous brochure.
They talk white paint, plush curtains,
flowers and plants in the foyer:
they shred leaves of Chaucer
to garnish an exhibition.
Cogs of paper push hands
and a clock somewhere
justifies its existence.
They decide to decide later.
All the pounds left over
from multi-gym exertions
are heaped on the floor
for clients to sketch
in their frequent boredom.
In the Talking Shop
originality is a luxury
nobody can afford:
and if you complain
the word-detectives soon arrest
your mouth and use it to bin
the scraped paint, dead flowers, shoddy curtains.
by Mike Jenkins
from This House, My Ghetto
Rambling At The Bridge Head 