No one knows where the

Morris came from, some

say Africa. Or what?

Blackface see. Tradition

with its wreaths wrapped

alien tight around our

island. Don’t touch it. We

are not for you. Our children

suffer, whatsisname prizing

out the tuck from under their

Roman noses. Scarcity,

a woman scrabbling in the dust.

Brown people bleeding their

brown blood everywhere.

Muck. Time to look backwards

to a time when things were

lighter. Just don’t mention the

wars! Our Great Nation spraying

Enlightenment all over the

place- a tired child learning

how to use the Big Boy.

Nope. Your utopia is short-

sighted. Love is finite. No

space for humanity here.

Time to dial it back

to a dreamless rock,

all lonely in its sea of Mine.