Where new writing finds its voice

If I was,

Mark Waldron

I don’t know, walking down, say, a street 
and I happened to come across  

a group of, I don’t know, firemen
who were fighting, say, a fire, 

then I might imagine, might I not, 
their fire hose to be a long and beige salami. 

And then I might imagine, might I not, 
that I could take a slice of that salami, 

that I could peel it of its ring of canvas skin 
and then I’d have a lens, 

the freshest monocle through which, 
if I held it to my open eye, I’d probably see 

a group of firemen with a cut hose 
shouting angrily.