I now recognize
the walls
The permanent lines on her wrinkled face she harbouredOn her shoulder the loose threads flyWaiting for the ones gone from her lullabyTo the city…
Wash your hands, Go!, Wash your hands
So tired,of all this running.Stop,put hands on knees.Take a breath.Look back.They’re still coming.
She pushed inRaucous callingDuring the Gospel:I need boots!Give me boots!That’s what you’re here for!
Money can’t make someone happy
High summer.Queen Anne’s lace parasolsthe worn curbs of West End Road,bends to traffic.