Cath Campbell

The News

You sit there in front of the prompter
Hair coiffered, makeup perfect
Gym toned thighs, and a dress
Between Dior and M&S.
Nothing too arresting,
But just enough to be a dolly.
And you pontificate about
The Middle East, Israel
Thriving on the despair
Of the disposessed.
An orgasmic spasm.
The news.
You’ve never seen a bomb
Or your house disappear into rubble
While you huddle, life in ruins.
Did everyone get out?
You wouldn’t know,
With your certainty,
Your sold-out-I’m-going-places
It’s them, them
That have to go places, not you.



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