It is the tenth of May 6:58p.m. and we are

all huddled up on the living room sofa hands

wringing hands phones poised on each letters

each of us in preparation (though we know

the rumours the leaks the consequences)

our stomachs bundled like our arms in our duvets

mouths slack and transfixed; waiting, waiting to see it:

He appears; sallow face and combed hair in the

ministerial broadcast, fist thump and passion,

nostalgia for the corner shop and the building site;

being fed food by people I don’t know

reading the first three pages of a book in a Smith’s,

treats boxed in wicker and spread on a mat

and close to dead as friends and sun will allow

and he speaks and we search each word

for household park home life hear just one

and we can’t help but cheer at the scraps

we imagine how the whole street must sound

from their televisions the whole thing a firework

of cheering quiet celebrations the country feels

like freedom not a week after the 75th and

England is free once again three hundred

grandparents died last night the park is open


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