Civil Twilight

Emotion scoops the footpath’s velvet edges, estate agents’ bluster calibrates the street’s livability, treeless, ajar with fridges bunked out. Investors wave sheets of sums to air, a tiny computer chalked on glass, loving the artist’s marble noose in adjacent pop-up gallery they might’ve forked out for, but didn’t. It was no use crying now though her vale of tears candies a conquest, with stuck name tag and good insurance that barely cost a sou. A countdown into space echoes, blue lorikeets flit the race and pigeons chew the eaves for reassurance over suckling locals and tourist dandies.