As you may’ve heard? The machines whirred…
Ahem. I hum along, go, go choral during chores.
Idle tittle-tattle relates: someone else is it! Out, out,
wherever you are… As we rest inch locked in local traffic.
At least the wind’s direct. Skylines—swart hordes,
jutting high stacks—intermit smoke. Mid replica and
replica, populous, inhabiting the ad hoc, many seek to hide.
Me? I’m available, out in the yard.