You ask me if love is all that matters.
Not this shit again.
It’s Friday night
in Sydney. Damp and windy
and cold.
A rat runs out to nab a chip
then runs to hide again.
In the safety of the bush,
it scoffs down little bites
of its little chip.
There.
Ask that rat.
It gets way more
than you or I could ever hope to get
‘bout all that matters.
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