The sun on my pen makes it a beak
Swilling krill through the bright lake
In swirls, across the ledge, shadows
Edge in drifts as curtains think of England.
They're talking about the parking space again
Outside,
More politely now in tones that hide
The squabble over territory
And then sirens like a paint bucket thrown
And someone thinks they funk
Then just soft growls and the siren
Comfortingly distant.
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