Lay
for the Day
1st
May
Mayday.
What
about the workers?
Till
C. Johnstones Scots
her plastic says
her name, her voice
her
birth.
Behind her, heads
and nothing else
look down, move side
to side,
the row of tills
alignment and
identity
precise.
Seven is dark,
half-Indian,
half-African
perhaps,
whose nose-stud winks,
her modish mop
curled and front shock
gingered;
while eights black hair
and small white face
are perfectly
Pictish.
And so on down
the line and round
the conquered globe
live
parts.
C. Johnstones six,
whose lilt amid
digits blips is
humane.
The
Lay Reader: an archive of the poetic calendar
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