Moment
It could be of moment,
allies snarl, become opponents
anyway, anyhow, anywhere.
Red touch paper, ignite blue —
who’s done more
than his fair week’s share —
slams door, wages war,
tosses cope, throws shade,
resentment grew, fuse blew,
well, what’s a boy to do?
He considers primary colours
in England’s wild hedgerow,
how vast her gardens grew,
profuse in green and yellow.
Pauses; considers lilies in the field,
who toil not, of little yield
and only spin tall tales,
send screeds about sick days,
holidays, awaydays, cut pay,
and slashed seats or fares.
If red tosses hand grenades,
find him down the esplanade
Blue shrugs — outplayed,
spreads waters with palm oils
while covertly his insides boil.
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