Coming through the Calthorpe Estate,
the houses are crisp and white
and resting in the greenery.
White, still and softly spoken,
they tell what having is in Georgian style
as we're bussed in to our relative invisibility.
Still, our work does have us clocked
so we might show up somewhere,
nothing much to speak of; counted.
Squirrelled away in the lusher shade of our heads
there's a faded, garish picture of a Lenten feast
going on forever, almost
as forgotten as we will be.