Last resort

On bombing Pakistan.


1. Last resort

We all live in a yellow submarine

The girl at the counter is growing old in front of me

I see wrinkles forming around the corners

Of her mouth and under the eyes

Becoming crow's feet.


She asks what bread I would like

I say hearty Italian and as she turns

I see her hunched back, arthritis

Plaguing the wrists that help her

Grab the bread and open it up like a surgeon.

Yellow submarine

When she bends over to get

The meatball marinara, my favorite,

From the tin container

I see her fingertips yellow with nicotine,

Her veins protruding through her translucent skin.


She asks if I want cheese

And I reply watching the strands of white hair

Piercing through at the edges of her cap

Dangling on her ears which almost lost their hearing

'Yes please, toast it'.

Yellow submarine

She passes it on to the other guy

An old man, who grabs it with shaky hands

as his bald spotted head reflects the neon light.

'That would be 4.50, please'

I give him a tenner for his retirement fund.



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