They Call it a Cottage / Thanks

Huge garden / room for 20 tents
a green‐glassed greenhouse
choked with sour grape vines
and a glimpsed cat that scampers
like I was Jack the Ripper.

Dusk bats and swallows
crick my neck. My eyes ignore
the purple painted walls / try to
Sky / red night and tomorrow
will be fine ‐

but, let's face it,
giving up is easy.