memory, Poetry, Politics

99 red ballons go by

We fixate over fixtures,
Curtains and trimmings,
We measure lighting
Too bright, though brimming.

Lying on rugs: gazing
At the sofa – genuine faux leather
Hiding behind aircon double glazing
Sweating, no matter the weather.

Does it matter whether
We own bubbles in the sky?
Till we find a home
We are all just renting, aye?

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