Diaspora
In a caravan,
just around the corner, your front door step — a crate — avoid the broken bit, still slip. Here the rats migrate.
Still working, Far North,
stooped like a magpie bent on finding platinum to solidify a family that disintegrates.
You’re in a house bus,
not big enough for the kids. It wasn’t five years ago but dreams change.
Mum creates a lawn,
wipes the surfaces again. Always trying to get something to come up clean.
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