There is a tent under the flyover,

its green membrane door,

old and plastic,

flaps and coughs,

stuttering for a memory,

grasping at the once former etiquette of a visitor

calling at a friend’s house

without prior announcement,

the heavily and obvious cleavage

driven and the naughty never punished

stares of the early morning milk delivery

and the picture postcards

of a long dead era, no milk today,

no festival date by mistake

with a song of one hitting the high notes

and the lifting silver rusted pegs