theres
a
sick man
sorting and creeping
thru
his
hoarded kipple hes keeping
in
black bags stacked and tumbling
in
his
suffering ma's driveway
her
house
already stuffed to the ceiling
and
next
door
a bad man is swearing and shouting
at
his
daughter whos wailing and crying
and
hysterically pleading
between
his
endless
decorating drilling and remodelling
and
then
suddenly they are all moving
and
theres old guys slowly walking
to
the
shop
for
papers for reading
stopping and gossiping
about
britain declining
and
the kids i used to see cycling
are
grown
now
and
shoot around in hatchbacks driving
away
from their bungalow
that
echoes with arguing
front
door
always
open
behind a ford cortina rusting
and
me
i am bleeding
from cuts i keep making
when
shaving and cooking
between
escalating curtain twitching
bad
sleeping
and
dr visiting
from curbsideclassic.com
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