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damien peach waits at the bus stop,
choosing the seat with mustard mold
creeping under the grate.
his drone eyes droop
and sway in an effort to keep afloat.
‘i wonder if i deserve to be rained upon’
an air of suspicion seems to seep all around him,
perhaps from the morning dew.
encke flitters about in the park.
his ‘baby blues’ pick up inspiration for a freshly sprouted tomato garden:
a plot of red top mushrooms remind encke of light picnic pasta
with lime leaves and bright cranberries.
‘yes! I am free as the summer wind! as the comet who swings around the Sun!’
none of the matters really mattered to encke
after damien peach had drifted through his sheets of paper,
and after encke had savoured his last sweet lime leaf,
the two sit at the opera together.
encke’s heart dashes when the chanteuse lifts her swinging voice up the octave,
‘what a lovely sentiment!’
damien peach only notices the concert mistress
tilt her ear to meet the knotted wood of her instrument.
encke reflects aloud the complex beauty
of the opera’s essence and bright insights.
deciding damien’s silence to be complicit,
encke becomes distrustful of the sincerity of their excursion,
and of their dynamic.
“ouch!’ damien peach yelps.
“my frail heart, you know it can’t handle the intricacies of inside life!”
“well,” says encke, “I won’t be reigned in, or on for that matter!
yes, this parade will march on with staunch independence.
I won’t stand for all of this meandering! why don’t we just soak ourselves in mediocrity stew while we’re at it!”
they both take two grey taxis,
each touching their soft hands to their heads,
and moving towards their respective gardens.