[000/0001] The Universal Consultation

A poem about the ritual of wanting.

Photo by Rubaitul Azad on Unsplash

The high streets were cold, the shops were full,
the air thick with anticipation, 
as I grabbed a slip and a tiny pen
to start my consultation.

I’d browse the "Book of Dreams" for hours 
on floors of scuffed-up tile, 
scribbling a code for a plastic toy 
to earn a birthday smile.

But the "In Stock" light has flickered out, 
the magic has left the shelf; 
I scroll a screen in the dead of night 
to soothe a digital self.

The catalogues are only ghosts, 
the tiny pens have all run dry, 
and "Out for Delivery" is the only way 
to hear the high street sigh.