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There is thick dust at the big black gate,
sheeted metal pulled together, cold and silent,
locked.

Dust, gathered in a ball,
mixed with long grey hair,
an empty sachet of chewing tobacco.
It all flies a bit this side, then that,
each time a vehicle whizzes by.

A big thick red stain runs long,
dried into the concrete by the sun,
ugly, tomato sauce that someone stepped on.