Rocks (or five morons mowing the lawn)

A pumping machine.
The sound of women’s feet,
clipping outside.
On a street pavement.

The hammering,
chips and echoes.
An engine wines;
men talk.

My ticking clock
Says its time to rise.
No use resting
when there’s none to be had.

A loose curb, rocks.
A footfall
beneath the window.
Keep still I say.

Chains drag.
Wood falls.
A siren starts.
That’s enough she says.


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