What if those brooding houses

locked and homeless

in the midst of the bubble

were not invisible

but behind their nails and planks

hid a giant tumble

which drew inside all foreigners

for a split of a second only

spun them and placed them

back into the city light

Expats, Migrants and Refugees

would mix their colours like in the wash

And could not even tell each other apart

The Expat would not worry about her promotion

but about the family back-home-bomb-shell

The Migrant would not want a better life

annual bonus rather, child care and company car

The Refugee would not return to gunpoint

But walk back to his large and smelly office

Boat people would wear ties

Get a life would be Survive

Permits and applications would be

the cloths that never ever dry