A fire engine sits at the end of my road,
A ladybird trapped in an ants' cul-de-sac.
A trickle of numb fear caterpillars across my stomach
As I momentarily wonder whether my belongings are on the barbecue.
Women in pyjamas scuttle from their doors
Proudly displaying their pink baggy silk trousers.
A balding man approaching forty cranes his neck
In a blue toweling dressing gown that ends worryingly mid-thigh.
The bright yellow helmets have disturbed the street's slumber,
Bare feet and bulging eyes investigate the disturbance.
The Pyjama Party has been paused by these oleander aphids
Who have come careering into our habitat at five to twelve.
My interest in the matter dwindles when I see that my anthill isn't scorched
And as I rest my antennas, the ladybird backs beeping away
And the street rests its many legs beneath the grey hazy sky.
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