In the chicken shop, the wings got smaller

and smaller, until they were the size of a little toe.

An old man was raging about it, waving a tiny wing

under bossman’s face. But bossman was a hologram.

So was everybody else.

In Trafalgar square, the country’s leading pundits

fought to the death over Britain’s last IRL piece of cheese.

The whole thing lasts 7 seconds. People stood up

when the national anthem rang over slo-mo replays.

An algorithm crept its way through our sleep.

Taking notes. Filling in the gaps.

Tampering with the resolution.

I bet it’s easier to imagine a nuclear war

than a muffin in a pond.

Easier to imagine an alien overlord

than England, tiny England, disappearing.