Statues

It’s great to be here, as if from a passing car.
A glimpsed London: unbuttoned, adjacent
encroaching. Disclosures in each other’s faces.
Pigeons glutton and cling to the curb
lads on a mission collapse off traffic islands.
A city unlocks memories at night
like shards…no, like tricks of light.
That’s why the city can’t sleep. Or disappear.
I wanted to retreat into something bigger than me
proximity to the seen the unperceived
to pursue the pavement in plain view
of the freckling spit of the open face
of the street. We are nudists
in the sand of this surveillance.
It’s great to be here, my wheels don’t stop turning.

 

I pass the locked great offices of state
fried onions, sirens, cashpoints,
bus stops, watching taxis lie in wait and
in each friendly face I meet
in every drunken introduction
every busker, behind every hidden pin number
I feel the thrill of hide and seek
we’ve all been burnt before; all our motives questionable
when loving me don’t forget to read the small print
and rescue me please rescue me or
leave us loneliness, that barely legal whisper
this town’s only privacy. We all roll on
like the Thames I flow but more an ocean.
So statues stare; it’s consensual.
When no one has eyes for me it’s like heaven.

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