Cheap

I shall write an ode to cheap stuff—
the stuff you find in tarpaulined street markets
on depopulated Wednesday afternoons,
for I want to praise and adore all
things that chip or snap or stretch unduly.
That shrink in a cold wash.
That splinter when prising open a Thermopak
breaking your nails.

I want to celebrate the XXXL pants
posted from Guangzhou
that a five-year-old can almost pull
over her forehead, stopping all her blood.
I want to gaze upon a hawthorn-patterned mug
that lifts from lumps of dishwasher steam
cleansed of its pattern entirely.

I want knives that bend, lamps that cannot lamp,
duvet covers that fray and bleach and tear
to make your bed a necessary place of shreds.

I want plants that simper with ochre blotches
and a fish that sinks like the last scrap of soap.
Carpets that in a week release their pile
to unleash baneful continents of hessian.

But mostly I want the fusty seats
of a matinee in 1974 with hours of Flash Gordon
or Beau Geste and your stinky hand in mine,
cold popcorn filled with kernels like teeth
all loaded with burnt butter and
our wet noses filled with an joyful ocean
of bad cologne.