Five of them
huddle in a circle by
an orange tree where
they have peed.
In awe
of their similarities.
Skeletal aliens
sniffing, prancing, to
the distant sounds
of three ametuer flamenco
guitarists. They are clapping
their branch legs to the dry
ground. Jumping over lapdogs.
They are thin and sad.
A private show to the
siesta smokers who
watch from the benches above,
flicking cigarette filters to the
Borzoi´s dancefloor.
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