Three Geese

The sky’s on fire
And the road is empty,

The climbing weeds
Dance in a broken breeze
Beside the dog piss tears,

And the crooked kerb
Is a twisted smile
With a gutter moustache,

Whispering ghost traffic
In the quizzical humidity.

Three geese land
On the barren street,

And parade, chests puffed,
New leaders strutting proud,

Honking cockily,
Planning nests and hang out spots,

Angry and objectionable,
Hissing in patterns,

Without any kind of manifesto
Or ideology,

Whiter than flags
Left undyed in a box,

Unlikeable lilies in bloom.

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