Sitting here in a standstill, slouchy paunch posture
between five days gone going nowhere, jazz
dancing on rainy flagpoles in witch hour's
swirl of chemists crosses and Coca-Cola signage,
written on the backs of tatters maps of Edinburgh,
were stanza sheets in odes to cobblestone and
street lamps, colours of eye-shadow we could wear.
And I've met people just as lonely from Verona
to Lille and Yorkshire, cracking their wholesale
smiles for clack of Euro dimes on the top
of wishing well ice which didn't freeze in November,
didn't thaw in July; vivid as light rush
with Western sunrise columns, I am the pence
piece amongst them, you are the American dollar.
“There is a policeman and a Tory inside all
of our heads”, at least that's what I heard
from a subtle lips' motions between big band
trumpets and fumes of dry ice rum, enough
to replay, “there is a liberation theologian
and a Tony Benn in our hearts”; you said
I do too little to defeat them.