Poem #89

Clean strides up Fulham Rd,

Landing on the heel,

Rolling,

Springing

From the feet.

Ahead: a cigarette, pinched between

Fingers, propped up by a thumb.

Hold breath for the overtake…

Relax too soon–

Ashy cloud inhaled,

COs wound

Irreversibly

Round haemoglobes–

Cast loathing shoulderwise

Like salt,

Or a child sent early to bed.

Odious habit.

Shake it off.

Continue into the smog

Of a thousand rush-hour cars

Up Fulham Rd.

 

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