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In a caravan,
just around the corner,
your front door step — a crate —
avoid the broken bit, still slip.
Here the rats migrate.
Still working, Far North,
stooped like a magpie
bent on finding platinum
to solidify
a family that disintegrates.
You’re in a house bus,
not big enough
for the kids.
It wasn’t five years ago
but dreams change.
Mum creates a lawn,
wipes the surfaces
Always trying to get something
to come up clean.

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