Photo Art by Michael Dooley
i. the heir
will your homesick spirit, knife-healed to your sinews,
be flesh-clothed, then carted, then tipped out in this dumpwill they leave you annoyed at your pavingstone poolside
where fleas hop, skinks skitter, & fattened frogs jumpwill your bloodless shouts echo, re-witlessly echo,
& bash at your temples with a maddening thumpwill you touch silks, or tramp them, or tiptoe on pebbles,
then streak down your driveway where your supplicants slumpwill you retreat to your stylised riot of leafwork,
your bas-relief cornucopia, your half-rotted stump
ii. the hustler
naked bones of a flayed high street—
strewn raw cinderblocks bleach in the sunprefab towers of concrete slice
a gash of blushing sky—a day is donebut you're too keen to call it a night,
best sit it out till the evening's runits course of tourists hounding the curb,
go humour their jibes, their tired fun
iii. the entrepreneur
in this newly interred wintering valley,
your start-up baulks like a zombie in chainsyour erstwhile plebs goad you right to the cliff-edge,
deaf to your pealing heart, numb to your paintheir collarbones winch up their retching heads
tossing lank, snarled locks in blind disdainbut your torchfire sputters the feeblest orange,
& not even your puppydog prowls this plainas if it could soothe their long-thwarted anger
or charm the assurances you mouth in vain
iv. the developer
each season, you gift the boardwalk chapel
the fresh-painted likeness of a heavenly hostyou're so anxious you'll lack the wherewithal to die
with honour intact, you'd leverage your ghostensuring your spirits fall fiscally flat—
go redeem your sins with a fiery riposte& sanctify your words by stirring their drinks
against deep-seated apathy, then raise up a toastto your beachfront condo on this drab urban strand
with its view of the sewer pipes fouling the coast