Urban foxes are bolder than the urban junkie.
The urban fox will run across the growing headlights of a night-bus
and feast upon discarded chips in the street without shame of the scrutiny.
The urban junkie will skirt along the shadows of alley-mouths and squat doorways
and eat from your bins fearfully, with limbs that quiver from withdrawal and guilt.
That said, I’ve seen both pissing at the plinth of the Queen Victoria’s statue
and heard of both biting careless policemen.
There is a bouquet of stolen daffodils in my trousers pocket
Leaking from their stems and freezing my leg,
I can remember the where but
I can’t remember the why.
I have nobody to give them to
and each step I take
sheds a petal and splits the stems more and more.
On the night-bus, I stand to avoid breaking the daffodils.
Somebody in the rear of the double-decker is sick
and it trickles down, in a soupy stream,
every time the bus goes downhill.
I get off on Lewes Road and upend my wallet
on the counter of an all-night kebab-house
“I’ll have whatever I can afford, please.”
I’m given a styrofoam box with eight chicken nuggets,
a generous helping of garlic mayonnaise
and a detached and apathetic facial expression.
I get home,
put the daffodils in a Beck’s pint glass of water,
put on a Mike Leigh film, Life Goes On,
and fall asleep.