A Gig in London

Too many loomers
Carving wing spread
Shadows onto a
Wallpaper of orange

We approach but the
Gate shuts with a rapturous clang
Faces at the window offering
Hot anxiety

The perch is damp
Wet with accumulated

Paper fires in London
Or veiled English villages

An intruder enters, carefully.
The Mayor, fresh from

Eclipse the bottle of
‘rouge’ in the nook
Behind the wall
Under streetlight
Of muted admiration

Not yet dark, remaining
Light compressed under
The guilty weight of

Curtains pulled fractionally
With peep holed filled by

Islington twitchers, outside
For limp cigarette
Wary of front lawn

Rifle through the bag
Into a queue of isolation
Singled out like a
Favourite coin

Nervous plosives as
The rates are reduced for
Me, out of pity

Shuffling through an
Enthusiastic chessboard
To the undesignated front

Bones malleable, carrying
Effervescent speech

A deep set thumbs up
To a minute point, above
Our heads

Time in sizeable
Chunks is occupied until
It starts.

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