• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 12
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Temporary Social Housing

It dangled like a carrot -
The rusted key
To the rusted corrugated iron shed.

They said, I'd be off my head,
Not to snap-it-up
This star blocking sponge like bed

With corrugated iron stains
And tin can rain collectors
Displayed like candle holders
On a buckled red stained floor.

Cotton trump's cardboard,
They said, with pen ink
Dangling between - accept, decline,

While my eyes adjusted
To lines where outside
Pressed against wavy iron walls.

Entitled, she called
The back of my head
Disappearing through the
corrugated door
Of a tin can shed.