its not cold anymore.
the sky is a stretch of soft brushed blue.
my street is like a picture out a storybook-
young mother walking bouncing children home
her
arms
full with padded parkas and colourful flasks-
the white haired widow outside her ochre house on the corner
washing her hyundai hatchback-
neighbour opposite rolls out her bins/her arm not in plaster anymore.
they have all taken in my bulky mail and amazon packages for me.
but!
i see an apocalyspe/its like this is a memory of the before-times
and
now
all the dust is dust . . .
wait!
i dial it down-
like a picture in an estate agents pamphlet/the apocalypse
only
his
commission.
i go inside and the big eyed cat happily shows me
he dragged
a tea towel over his curled turds.
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