Slow. Slow. A crawl.
Slow. Slow. Slow
down the Smallbrook Queensway.
Wet long mass of tarmac
with tail light streaks: blood orange.
Dusty from inside the nutter's radio:
I just don't know what to do with myself.
He wears red and black rugby socks.
Home's a long way from the Holloway Circus
after being sleeted on for a bastard hour.
Slow. Slow. Slow.
Writing with all
the angry cars about.