London in 1997
Up from the Thames a rising bleak
smudges the tops of sooty crowns,
shaken with the smell of hot concrete,
and petrol cook up with rain.
In a rushed hand, gargoyle quills
splash onto passer-byes,
drool into city grates,
where trickled libations
barely feed a half starved Minerva.
Forgotten under tire and foot,
she lets out a long rumble
from the wind pipes,
darkened and swishing at steps
lit florescent on wide platforms
thin legged emissaries,
collide upon corners,
grasp trouser hems for a pound.
Up in oblivion, hurried paces
slap in staccato, in scored margins,
sentinels at pop-up stands
wave damp dailies,
white teeth and brown collared.
I stand quite alone, vellum hooded,
on the loneliest street,
bereft as a empty wash tub,
holding onto a weepy scone
for the heat in my pocket.