Wednesday, 9 May 2012

Three Ghost Shirts

The fence in the front yard, having lost one panel, smiles
like an old grizzler shuffling his way down the supermarket aisle
on pension day. The neighbour’s car mourns like a hearse
in the gap of the broken smile.

There’s a tree smeared all over the road
and the back fence no longer adheres
to its crooked line: it twangs and trembles
like the string on a guitar and accompanies
three ghost shirts singing on the line.

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