How do folk born of clay progress
other than ploddingly
community tastes crummier but
we weren’t always loners
as witnessed by the club sweater
still clutching to the back of the closet.
An old wind blows:
‘Hold up your own dang trousers
no one’s going to tighten your belt for you
welts of meddlesomeness don’t
wash off and custom fit swim belts
don’t teach you how to swim.’
It’s the world changing gig workers
who keep us up at night.
We’d love to quit the crisis by wearing
a sweater from some bygone club.
As that familiar warmth still fits
we can even save on heat.
But we want something new
a brisk wind and heated terraces
the sweater goes back into the closet.
Translation: Trevor Scarse