I want to live in a destination.
For touring tourists and passerby.
Our house a little speck
in the wrinkled corner
of any postcard you could buy.
We’ll sit outside pubs and cafes,
Like ridiculous props,
And we’ll laugh at them as they pass us by.
While they take Polaroids of us,
From atop a roofless bus.
They’ll snatch that photo,
and flap it excitedly.
We’ll slowly come to color,
Looking like props on a stage.
We’ll end up on fridges a thousand miles away,
in homes we’ll never see.
Hole In The Hedgerow 
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