Allied & Provincial

 

There’s money here

but deftly hidden:

fancy boots and bags

belong to trousered greys

who know to save

but still eye up

the cogs and chains

of cement trucks

slowly crushing

a spitooned tarmac.

 

Then purple liquid

bottle held,

knees of chalk dust

wilding eyes,

floats over with

a route-torn body,

jumbled direction

and verbal cues,

gibbering at a bloke

benched nearby,

his Zippo lighter

a sick sixth finger.

 

‘I respect you

like Churchill’

thrown to the friend

with the poker stare

and a Grot-like manner.

 

The denim wearers, fake-tan sports,

are way more weathered from kneeling through.

All universally clamped lips shut

the wind and sun out, matter of course.

 

Faded strawberry bags of fitters

lying on the sick, as a poor windowed

Blockbuster prints itself on the bus stop.

 

Watching, wary eyes before a

‘Bass-elona have got United’

and then an ‘Ooh, I remember all them cups’.

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