The smell of spinach cooked on a cold evening,
the dying light disappearing down the drive.
Over the freeway and railway, over the hills,
glows in golden twinkles and the tall towers look like lighthouse on hills,
looking over the cold motherless sea.
I would lie awake in bed happy
that I was no ones boss yet still well considered.
Voices from the other houses around me,
women crying out.
A new woman has moved in near me and she is a beauty.
I watch her walk by my window, she passes at dawn.
I bicycle to work on those mornings,
the puddles on the path-
passing the factories, the freeway to my left,
the smell of spray paint and sewerage to my right.
The grey long warehouses
one had the temperature displayed about its main doors;
the number in bright red LED.
The sad faces and equally sad trucks going in and out the smoke covered gates,
once a red sports car drove past
but here among the factories
it too looked sad and pointless.
I was always happy to be moving away from those factories
my two wheels whizzing away on the cement road.
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