Poetry

Our holy house

nice to have them, companions
you can stand with them
on Lorne Street talking shit
not worried
that on this narrow footpath
between the road
and glass front of some transient women’s clothing shop
you’ve made a gauntlet
people are hesitant
to walk through          especially
the ones walking alone
who look glum         to us
who are happily thieving time
in broad daylight
who get the idea
to raise arms
angled like a roof, to span
the narrow footpath
for people to walk through
into our holy house

we only tried it once           he stopped
looked confused, turned
and crossed the road

our holy house collapsing with laughter
as such things often do.

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