DRESS CODE > POETRY
This morning must assuredly
be akin to every other:
the armpits are off to work
with fine sweat, on fine cotton.
(Oil and sweat on canvas)
does not smell,
they say.
It has not
bathed in the
venal flow of the
Thames. Fine sweat is dignified
a man’s white collar hard at work
produces fine sweat
when it sits (in fear)
at the back of the commuters’ bus.
Commute, you say?
On a fine morning not more than
Fifty-six
minutes long.
Or the fine, morning-starched cotton is crinkled
worn and its white has turned to blue
(the blue of Metro and
Royals’ Cigarettes).
Nathan Lucaussy writes poems from London – some light, some not, and some we’d rather all forget. He wrangles products by day and champions food waste by night (because really, who’s pro-wasted food these days?). If not musing or managing products, he’s probably spilling tea. Literally. Poetry in Shot Glass and Argo.