Even telegraph poles look foreign: tarry, scuffed
and twice as thick,
stapled with colourful fliers: travel ads, want ads,
apartments, missing pets, people –
When torn off to make way for new ones (torn in their turn),
the tiny corners remain,
a mesh of staked claims, stitches, a wound
that won’t close. I zoom and click,
wondering what my roommates will make of
the furious mosaic.
One thinks it’s a shanty town, another a beach
or city dump, or maybe a march
or sit-in, people holding up placards, right?
Close enough.
