This is real
For two weeks of the year
This is us now
This is us then
Complexions are never complete
Think of all the shoes
A happy life, creators
Of nocturnal whirring
Letterboxes fluttering
Sleepers talking
And old men heaving
From the pits of stomachs
At six a.m.
A mouthwash at seven
No middle aged anorexics here
Only fashion food and
Attackers' babies in abundance