Bottling It

I’m looking for the doorstep
where they should be standing
as bottles of milk always did.
I can see their shadows and reflections
but nothing solid beneath them.
It’s as if they’re suspended,
suspended like the cotton wool clouds
hanging above them
unable to abate the sun,
just melting in to air
as everything solid will do
under these bright blue blue skies.
Marx saw it coming
but our eyes were closed.
Now they’re blinded by the light.