Suburban Adaptation

A pale square marks my turf, suppressed and compressed
And a Hills hoists my colours
As shadows of fruit bats move from fence to yard to fence
In exaggerated attempts to mimic their creators
I inhale 36 chemicals, then exhale
Forming ghostly apparitions against a polluted sky
Of light and smog and noise
The only sign of what was
Are the dead leaves that blow in from elsewhere
If this is adaptation
Then give me regression.

Suburban Adaptation

Michael Douglass

Alexandria, Australia

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