Words by Joshua Strauss We live at number twenty-two, Behind a cluster Of broken bricks And marred consecrations Of bereft memories. A playground all concrete That leaves a nagging itch on the skin. It opens its arm in an embrace With the warmth of family estranged; Forgotten and always hated. On the walk to number twenty-three Stumble over the mismatched Paved slabs and sprays of dirt. A delta of concrete cracks Pushing us away. Remnants of civilisation, Car batteries and spray paints Gather in hushed testimony And arrange themselves In thoughtful prayer. Through the windows