I wrote this from a few lines that have been running round my head for a while now.

Right

The house to our right is empty, right now,

Right out of people and sofas.

All that stuff.

 

They’ve got the builders in, right now,

to make sure it’s right.

Just ... perfect.

 

Right before Christmas my mate moved out.

Everything in there was alright.

It was home.

 

That house’s been a year cold.  Right?

It echoes right and centre.

Solitary confinement.

 

Right now they’re building walls,

to keep things right.

A nice house.

 

The right builders to hire,

the right kitchen to fit;

the national dream.

 

A nice house in a nice street

in a nice village.

Right?

 

These rites are a ritual,

a simple passage.

To the grave.

 

I walk through the streets

of the right thinking people

and it feels like

there’s nothing

 

left