it always is - isn’t it
whitewash and corrugated sheets
slate roofs and chimneys
gloss painted window surrounds
and sad and sadder stone
all along dogged streets
past corner shops and chip shops
clammed pubs soiled of men’s nights
half-hearted graffiti deriding the inelegance
that might have been a way out
but is not of course
kick the bloody can
your turn
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