Dear friends, enemies, stalkers, passer through-ers,
in drab blacks
I dart the road busy as flies on fresh shit.
The foolhardy, wet-friendly, eat pink ice-cream on pavement grey slime
under a canopy of gush
guzzling walnut fuzzy-feeling coffee
wishing a bulb of light in the sky.
And then there’s Zelda, in the pound shop,
your joie-de-death look in a puff skirt filled with blood scenes from crime movies,
lips thin as blue litmus,
and double helix earrings trapped in a fright of knots
wearing a frill of dead yellow
elasticated at the cuffs.
Your glazed eyes said:
‘Life has got to be better than 99p.’