The house is painted in Communist colours,

its glass is frosted, the panes are closed.

The tin roof is rusted around the rivets,

and the khaki walls resemble wet cardboard.

It has a front row seat to a river of bitumen in flood.

Its neighbours fix drill parts,

and around its skirts cluster the non-recyclable scrag of take-away societies.

The house is empty, old and forgotten.


It could be funky.