Hump Day at the End of March

There was a sort of vogue for poems
Of the plain life when days were young.

Now it’s gone. Most life is plain still,
But who needs that shown in a poem?

Poems have work to do, loads to shift.
It’s no time to lie on the page

In a bed of stale deets and names,
And so, here we are, a few words

At the till, on our toes, bright-eyed—
How may we help you with your life?