poem (practically in the alleyway)

 poem (practically in the alleyway)


The pink house is

Now behind rough leafage.

Probably oleanders. Sundown

Tints the tips yellow.The roof 

Tiles enjoy themselves. The

Bush decides to divide,

A covenant with the wind.

Demuring to the green, the 

Weeds are terrifying. The taller

Pipes are uprooted.

A telephone pole has called  for

Ambience. Hell, it all sounds

Like a bandleader. The

Parliament is grand and bellowing.

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