Ode to DLR
You and I should meet on air,
in these whirling hyperloop palaces
of all burnished steel, treated glass,
Polish plumbers' expressions of effort
possessed of a breaking cold becoming
strangely humble,
as if you could meet anyone,
from anywhere,
when next break light chimes.
You and I should make an affair,
bathe in serendipitous twinkle of
Alexandra Palace hill light,
click heels and wish to tune
of Turkish butchers' instrumental clatter,
seeming soundtrack of Haringey
as if there could be anything,
all desires,
in off-beat pulse of gig space walls,
in the grandeur spiral of 8 million
we sometimes find ourselves
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