By Mancunion
that this pissy and ungourmet coffee undercompensates
for a last night on the tiles and the bourbon
with the boys. But my office on the office-block’s top floor
affords a sight for sore eyes, the city
spreadeagled under my estate-agent feet, squat buildings
settled like dice. Their value depreciates like
ice held while their occupants don’t see that life
is a chip in a casino, or a stack of chips
in a casino, and they miss that it’s worth nothing
except what you can use it to play for. What I’m getting at
is not the money. It’s the chance.
Joey Connolly-Wright
