Old Ephemera

Not had much time for science, politics,
or any of the things I’ve benefitted from
as a young citizen of this last hundred years.
I’ve read my Dawkins, though, and pricked my ears
politely to the lectures of the older set,
who’ve said how privileged I am to not
be North Korean or just otherwise deprived
of God’s great gift: democracy.

It's really rather flawed of me
to not wade in and fight for that which fought for me
(it’s always, in confessionals, the poet’s “me me me”)
but all I've ever liked or felt enthusiastic for
is art, be it bad or great or good, or anything
besides what’s really useful in this world.
The precious make-believe, projected images
on hands, the heart’s recorded finances.

For how else have I not
succumbed to existential grief if not
with even Z-list junk, that should succumb to rot.
The house of mirth is fuelled by mourning for the lost
and blind lurchings of human life forwards,
and my heart lingers backwards there.
I've always liked the gas-lit streets of Old
Ephemera, so much more than what is new, and bold.