hairy arm mayoral dog

stationary in the ironically named “rush hour”
reading a poem set in a town where dentists don’t have hairy arms
that tickle your throat

where every house looks the same and they have a elected dog as mayor,

her dress pulls over her arse like cling film over an 8ball,

and I realise that I’m of that age where the first flushes of romance are faint
like the rubbed out pencil lines
of that picture you can’t finish –

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