John Mee

Warm rain and gin slings

on the roof of the bank tower.

I eat the red apple meant for show.

My visitors talk

about Blade Runner and dystopia,
fly on to Australia.

Hats off for the temperature check —
butterfly flu

at the airport and docks.

The sick wear the same masks
as the well. I uncover

the lips of a stranger.

At the goldfish market,

the merchandise mouths Help
from plastic bags.