Listen to poem:
On the Outta
The street where I live
is where rich people
have holiday haunts,
or investors have airbnb houses to rent.
The little old lovelies are
tarted up with a lick of paint
stuffed full of
period matching furniture
and nick-knacks,
to charm the socks off
the visitors flocking to
the seaside for short stays.
Mid-week outta the holiday season
my little old street is a ghost town.
Only 5 of 34 houses with lights on
at night.
On the week-end its party time,
with parked cars choking the roads.
The kind vacationers tell me
when there's a party on
across the road,
and ask if I mind the noise.
Fortunately, though unfortunately,
I'm deaf in one ear,
and so with curtains drawn
and good-ear down,
it's sweet dreams
and memories
for long-stayer,
party-animal
on the outta,
little old me.
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