On Pickering Street

One passive day on Pickering Street,

a pilgrim prayed on a praying rug,
plastered on the pavement.
pitter patter, pitter patter, the rain plops.
lips parted, face perturbed,
praying on a praying rug.

There sits a pale lady,
perusing today’s paper and pondering placidly,
parked in a parking lot in her pink pretty Porsche.
pitter patter, pitter patt- the rain stops.
She picks up her keys and pulls out her Porsche,
puts away the paper, pondering placidly.

In Pickering Street lies a corner of poverty,
where prostitutes persuade and poor men play.
Their needs are too pricey, people need proper pay.
plink plank, plink plank the piano plonks.
There’s a putrid smell admist peaky faces
where prostitutes persuade and poor men play.

On Pickering Street,
prickles of sunlight appears,
whilst a preteen practices profanities
and a parent packs for a picnic.
Promises are broken, possibilities proved

On Pickering Street,
life pervades.

The End

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