Twister

By Vron McIntyre

Another blustery day.

At least two metres apart from ordinary life
you try to guess which way the wind blows
give way reluctantly to popular pressure
lest your stock goes down

batten down the hatches for a while
keep yourself afloat
try to weather the storm
which isn’t in a tea cup after all

Suit up with spin, mask ulterior motives
economical with truth and necessities
test only the depths of our credulity
track only the bottom line

obscure profit-driven neglect
behind a real pea-souper
spun from frothed-up Great British Spirit
(at least 70% alcohol most effective)

you say you follow all the right advice
we rise to the occasion, as we always do
like the rising sea levels you would rather not worry about
protected only by anti-viral gung-ho and a few bin bags

as you wash your hands of responsibility
twister-in-chief
deploy hand-wringing, empty gestures
bail out the rich, leave the old to die

talk of preparations as if you’d made any
as if you cared at all how many lives are lost
as if anyone can believe a word you say
as if the hurricane isn’t already underway

Vron McIntyre is a queer, disabled poet, originally from the north east of England but a long-time resident of Nottingham. She is enjoying the broadened horizons of online open mics.

Twister was an early lockdown poem. I had written a poem for a workshop using only words from Boris Johnson’s letter to the nation. That opened the floodgates and this is what came out. I could hear my late mother saying “Eee, what a twister!” about successive waves of dodgy politicians.