At the end of the shopping street
for people who look like
they do in the magazines
there’s a blonde marching in place waiting
for the light to turn green.
She is not running per se, rather
she’s hinting at running.
Selling it, the way
Charlize Theron sells
a night to remember in a perfume commercial
with next to nothing for evidence.

Finally we have them over to the house again, for the first time in what feels like a human life. One walks in smiling, the other bursts out in tears. “She’s pregnant” I think to myself. I’m right. For whatever godforsaken reason I see her as a submarine now. We talk without pausing, picking up from what could have been yesterday.

Looking at a picture of Elon Musk on The Guardian, and I need to do a triple take to see the caption does not, in fact, read “Elton John”. Sometimes, I feel like I’m in a live action dyslexia test.