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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