It’s become a ritual to chase the last of the winter sun each day, said the writer.
It would be the perfect way to end the day
by sitting at a tiny table and chair I have set up on the western side of the
house.
It would be perfectly located, the rays of soft yellow sunlight
buttering the thick foliage of the overgrown mulberry tree, if only I didn’t
have the best house in the worst neighbourhood.
I don’t mind the alcoholics in residency on
the top floor of the pub close by, who sometimes roam at night and hang around
my picket fence like a pack of mangey dogs. I don’t mind the mysterious people
from the green house who rise early to empty a lot of empty glass ware into
their bin before disappearing into silence for another twenty four hours. I
have no complaint about the meth lab the other side of my tall back fence.
It’s
the people who live down the lane who make me yearn for some catastrophy to
strike an end to their most disturbing public performance.
A sinkhole would do it, big enough to take
all their cars, their unroadworthy motorbikes, and deep enough that they
couldn’t even raise an echo of nasal drone. Adenoidal sounds of "Mate….mate….maaaaa-tttte" all the way down.
It’s the burnouts, they exercise in a fleet
of high powered muscle cars made possible by pooled pensions, traveling in both directions of the lane, that
annoys me the most. With some rat cunning, some spider sense, some evil spawn
connectivity, they avoid one vehicle coming down, from smashing into one coming
up the narrow loosely graveled road.
They’re only a terrible accident away
surely, caused by one of them spitting gravel in a wide arc as they navigate the
overhanging Calliandra haematocephala sprawling across the corner.
Perhaps one
day they will be distracted by it’s powderpuff flowers, blood red bullet holes
peppering stiffened leaves that fold up and close as dead man's eyes each
night.
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