The power's back on,
we know,
because we can hear the neighbour's radio
going hoarse over
the back fence.
Lucky,
with three fridges
full of
Christmas fare
that wouldn't be much good
lukewarm
or worse still,
rancid.
Later on, I let myself burn
in the afternoon sun
seemingly careless
but perhaps I want something,
some memory
I can keep close,
skintight
the season's greetings
written across my shoulders in
spaghetti strap lines.
It will hurt me
to hoist my backpack
homewards.
Perhaps that's what I want.
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