They Keep It Neat At No. 88
Their newly painted (white) spring-back gate
closes behind them with the gentlest click.
Mine is a poo colour and tends to stick.
They keep things nice at No. 88.
And they, themselves, are a well-kept couple.
I am someone they somehow tolerate.
At over the fence chats they’re truly great
and accepting of my drunken babble.
Because when my life became rubbish I
turned to the bottle. My recycling bin
overflows with empties. I chuck them in
and sometimes miss. It’s a mess. They know why
and don’t berate me. I should imitate
them. Life is neat over at 88.