Tuesday, 10 January 2017

poetry 2017 / 007

Wolverhampton Station 1986

Yellow cones of fog from the sodium vapour lights.
The guard opens the door for me
offers a hand as I step down
onto a wind-swept platform.
The fur on my collar protects my face
I nod a thank you
click-clacking toward the exit
and the concrete tunnel and steps
to the Wednesfield Road.
Moments in the limelight
cars flash past
businessmen collecting hookers,
young men returning to their mama's house;
pimps in jacked-up jags.
On Inkerman a bunch of Jamaican lads
fire million-dollar smiles
Do I want grass? Resin?
A length of cock and an STD
I laugh and wave.
Concrete stairs that smell of disinfectant
overlaid with piss.
Someone's wiped snot on the wall light
and Baz has left his mark
in out-of-date orange spray paint
though I admire the lines.
The lights are out on the concrete walkway
though enough flats light the way.
Home is the smell of oil paint and mildew
and the grumble of a boiling kettle.

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