Look out of the window.
The roofs of the cars
gleam with tedious malice.
Each one is the same, contained.
These days I go too many times past
the entrance to Cannon Hill Park
from where I ran, a thin kid,
out from Singing into the downstream road
to be hit and thrown up a good few feet
with a picture playing out
of a vase of orange roses
smashed and the whole of everything
getting slower and slower
till I woke up to an angry driver
and a halfarsed Sun.