I know the cheerlessness of copy centres,
    of hollow men with newspapers gone yellow,
mothers, bespectacled, with changes of address,

the smell of stationery, of bank statements, 
    taxation forms, of tenancy agreements,
that ink of nothing saying we exist.

And I saw suburbs, budding and yet dead,
    where nameless people would resemble people,
the street near flawlessly looks like a street.

Who do they copy? Who do I copy
    myself? Father, mother, world, DNA,
you stand there with your glittering own name,

your head so full of cleverly cribbed hope
    of rest, promotion, family, big money.
And I, who caterwaul inside my cantos,

if only I had something new to utter.
    Light. Heaven. Love. Disease. Or death.
I know the cheerlessness of copy centres.