A day, smartingly bright.

Smallish trees bend under windyness-

fishing rods tugged in unison.

Weeds party in the garish garden.

The fence, once painted traffic white,

leans into dishevelment.

Through its pickets, in time lapse,

the rarity of a skipping child.

A scooter-bound granny with a head full of stories,

and, later, the pilot of a souped-up wheelchair,

doing her death wish pirouettes in the roadway

while passers-by stop and honk.

All of these, like paintings seen through a clinging veil.

Seen by the crippled inside.

One more coffee, maybe,

to feed the prurience,

the insomnia.

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