Contest entry, rejected

Imprisoned in ant-farm condos, the wild is walled away. Trees march between us in nice even rows. Aliens descend weekly to lop the heads off all our dandelions, speaking lovely liquid Português. We cannot have flowers or paint our doors red. I bet the aliens can.

Gates constrain us, curbing channels us, our parking spaces are assigned. Separated by common landings, we nod politely, never speaking. Nightly garbage walks are furtive lest, caught unawares, we meet.

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