They’re like some alien culture’s hieroglyphs

these utility quotes, scrolling down my screen.

Fixed price or variable? TV and broadband scheme?

My eyes are stuffed but still I’m grudged to sniff

the tricks tucked in the tariffs and warily choose 

which deal might steer my budget round the reef.

My parents weren’t coerced to skirt such cliffs:

back then you’d pay flat rate for what you use.

 

The optometrist brings up graphs, but all I grasp’s

that corneas like my limbs - they’ve gotten stiff.

I know how lenses cost a whack, but gasp 

when the sales chap snooks from bargain rail to dearer,

tempting me with trendy style after style, as if

a change of frame could make this fog much clearer.