The plug on the hoover is greasy

after the flooding from the upstairs flat;

you think briefly

as you insert it into the wall,

then flick the switch and start to clean.

You wonder afterwards at your choice

which must have been one,

though you don’t remember making it.

There is not even a terrorist,

this time, for you to say you won’t be cowed

though you blame it anyway on where you’re from: you say

into your own salty palm

that you learned to live like this.

Even your palm knows the argument is crude.

Its little patch of eczema stares you down.