Drainpipe Concerto

Puttering around in the narcotic cemetery where pink plastic flamingos are planted in place of tombstones.   The inscribed epitaphs like closed captions in invisible ink beneath names & dates all of which are the same.   I have a map & a scorecard but without a telescope it’s hopeless.   The shake & bake flowers are nice though.   They bow their heads & mutter vague obscenities to themselves.   Bathed in albacore light the place is peaceful enough, like an underwater themepark in midwinter.