Seal

Seal

 

 

There used to be plastic, that much is sure,

like the world sealed in your snow globe,

shake it, shake it once, my love,

watch the fake flakes coat the potted world

and wonder what’s behind the green door.

 

Well, we’d often buy your Kipling’s mince pies,

which made good sense; no one likes them,

ripping them from wrappers, my love,

six chucked in the oven and giving them ten,

then we’d let them jacket the bin for size.

 

But now plastic tumbles from fridge to floor,

racked up foiled boxes of unstruck matches,

peel them, peel them, once, my love,

suck jam coat sprouts from seasick sachets,

honey-glazed seals for skins and cores.