Tightening

my hair fell out, her hair fell back
we’d sat for a week in hard straight-backed chairs
the type of plenty of managers straight jacket experience for the de-industrialised
her money had wasted us away, to beyond the pale
now we were begging from the street beggars with their damp paper cups
there was no camaraderie when I talked about Thatcher’s saliva on the dead
aims and none