In the heat of a July evening
You admit you paid for everything.
Now they’ve gone back to their own
You won’t get it back.
It’s only money.
What does it matter?
We are alive.
There’s food on the table.
The rent is paid. It’s summer.
They might come back.
Will you do it again?
Their memory is tinged
With bitterness, but it felt good
At the time.
We are poor, yet not worn out,
With accounting, despite the overdraft
Subtracted from our home
Of freedom and love, where the
Travellers came, their eyes
Fixed on small screens in silence,
While we made tea.


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