2148: Rounding Down

On my circled routes in
this town of deniers [&
serial shaggers] I head
back on a tarmac path
[between quiet houses

via a cul-de-sac] – Here
I limp – mis-stepping as
my legs complain ’bout
such trips – my routine –
through that wallowing

estate & into an ancient
woodland fed by run-off
Sundays [of car-washing
& jet-pressured hoses] I
walk alone – with a dog –

& avoid others with sour
faces – they are too glum
for my liking – Divorcees
drag their dogs on leads
as if to an orgy – there a

story ‘bout randy men &
gullible so-vain women –
[transcribed on tongues
across froth on lattes – a
shot of rounding errors]

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