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These people; they won’t recall

the gun grey skies, those steel covered

sodden streets, an army

searching out a place to park,

the tiny tenements that steal your cash

just so you can earn some more.


They sit on sun dripped promenades,

in wall-less cafes, lazily downing

their sangria, perhaps a cup of tea,

and wave casually to those they know

who amble by. The sea whispers,

conjures beach nibbling waves, recedes.

They watch, unthinking, beneath the palms.


The next day it’s the same.

And the next. And the next.  

Reminded that, amongst those wet,

car infested streets, lay a history,

an intellectual gallery to spike the brain,

they would stare blankly

and neither understand nor care.

Michael R Chapman
~ master of none ~
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