My mother would listen to Radio 2
while baking a cake in her kitchen.
Upstairs my punk platters span and spat
anarchic curses on the system:
I. Just. Don’t. Care.
I’m sure my younger self would want to say
that I’ve ‘sold out’ as I sit down to lick
your chocolate cake from my fingers
while listening to Country but, honestly, baby,
I. Really. Just. Don’t. Care.