From uni days, yet still strangely appealing.

The grass is
too long, here
the weeds too strong
the sun too bright
(my skin, my poor
maltreated skin)
the concrete
(ugly word, for
an ugly thing)
is too rough even
for my leathered feet.
The trees are
too big
too crowded
the garden is too
The chairs are
too dirty
and probably
too brittle to serve
their purpose
the other houses
and yards
and signs of human habitation
are far too close
too watchful and
too noisy
for my taste.
But sometimes,
when the summer turns
and time is
not so precious,
though the air is
far too heavy
and my roots are feeling torn,
I find 
perfect happiness
just outside my door. 


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