For you, LL. No need to even mention the category of the
husband. The oil lamps are dim, but you can still read everything.
Even if you had a hundred sons, they’d all be unionists. We take great
comfort for this. Postwar, no one will notice you if you wash in
depression maintenance tones of green, brown, and white. Use the
time and use your negative capital to squat this out for future rats. The
entire city is illegal, but the lanolin is slipperiest on the shore. Chokos
mince dead in the gut, for exchange with three stale scones and a mug
of powered milk. Find a slab, bury the coins, spray-paint the sandstone
and send all the unionists to George Street.

View this poem on The Disappearing »