The ascent of man

I told them the flat was damp,
cold, that mould grew in the kitchen,
mushrooms in the wardrobe.
They gave me a flag. 
Said “Here, wave this.”

I took the flag. Waved it.
The mushrooms were still there,
condensation still ran down the walls.

When the factory closed,
I lost my job. Scratted hand
to mouth, like everyone else,
pulled my belt tighter.
When I complained, 
they gave me a bigger flag,
a hotel to scream at.

I waved the bigger flag. 
I screamed like they told me. 
None of it put food on the table.

When I couldn’t find a dentist,
they offered me a flag.
Yesterday, the morning bus
was replaced by a man carrying
a flag and a broken umbrella.
We trudged to town in the rain,
each holding onto the flag.
An inspector checked our fares,
threw off dodgers.

Next week they promise us all
the performative cruelty we could wish for.
This, they crow, represents progress.

I’ll wait and see.




Steve Pottinger. 8 May 2026