the pub condom machine man
walked his final round
with a distinct melancholy—
tapping firmly, one last time,
on the sides to see if the change box jingled
and lamenting the dwindling
prevalence of an odd loose pound
in the pockets of the hopeful
among the weekend crowd.
he finished up in the sterile light
of the tesco toiletry isle—
scoffing at the low multipack prices
and the lack of spring-loaded
levers in the whole affair.
he decided, finally,
that he much preferred
the colours on his machines:
the defiance in the muted tones
of the faded durex labels
and the twinkle of LEDs.
Uncultured Review 