Our safari takes us deep into Chipping Sodbury,
where slow, dough-faced men mow
the same patch of lawn over and over.
They scythe bald patches then, as if
breaking loose of some ancient trance
gaze upon their works and lament,
clutching at their own grey hair,
tearing at it. Cecil Fipps (who, between you
and me, I don't much care for)
is writing a piece for National Geographic,
snapping away with his Canon
off the back of the Jeep.
We stop near the fire station
when the engine overheats.
Our driver hands me the gun.
'If in doubt, shoot,' he tells me,
then cautiously, quietly,
steps out, while I sit on the roof,
watching for milkmen.
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