How It Goes

Bland white male, 25-34.
Picked off the shelf, identikit features,
suit nice but not too nice.

She knows there's something wrong.

It's too late.

There had been warnings, on the TV, not to open your door
to strangers, but he wasn't strange,
he was boring, he was nobody.
27 minutes ago she let him in.
Now she thinks back, she's not sure he said why he needed to.
From the gas? The bank? Them?

It's been said they are coming.
They are looking for unattached people
who share too much online.
A little desperate, a little easily lost.
Data harvesting is no longer enough,
not from afar.

She didn't think it would go like this.
SAS-type men, black van, screaming.
Not a bland white male, 25-34,
sipping a milky tea on her sofa
whilst her eyelids begin to droop.

How It Goes

When her mug finally drops,
with a single sharp crack,
to the floor, the bland white man sighs
and puts down his own cup.
31 minutes. He's done better.

The neighbours'll never remember his face.