THE POSTER RUN

The dull thwung of tubular steel peels a requiem

Over a beer sodden ocean, carpet flecked with whitebait butts

The pub so recently a piazza, a black tomb

Amplifiers growing cold already on their aluminium beds

Rocking cross-town, not enough traffic to trip lights

 Red as the singer’s raw throat

The drummer brooding over a missed anticipation in the second verse

A nurse in a sixth floor window sipping bitter coffee to the slow beep of heart monitors

Her anonymous patient dreaming of cherries and the smell of a new pencil-case in a long ago

primary school when pens had nibs.

While far below through the ink

Glue-pot in hand the stink of urine clawing at him

He waits till the chuckles of revellers to fade like a loveless marriage

Before emerging unhurried but with the seconds carefully counted crumbs

Wipes his brush quick and smooth over last week’s labours

Seizes a still warm sheet

Spreads his wingspan and presses his whole body into it

For a moment one with the chipped bricks, part of the wall itself, consummating

Then stepping back conception and birth flattened into unity

Allowing himself just a second or two to admire his work

For he has a bootful left to do and only

A fool works after dawn.

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