Business centre. The television is
on. Somebody has a headache.
Aircraft leaflet the area,
Margaret Thatcher is on the radio.
A bank manager addresses rotary.
Someone sets fire to the kitchen.
Sit then perfectly still and be
John, or Nanki-Poo
dedicated to that certainty which
disappeared with miners and
Handel’s requiem in Old Trafalgar
Rise then Metroland although
the warmth is that
of unkept places at Euston.
Property values rise steadily
in the background: foreign investors
The Greek was dejected that day
and went the whole hog at auction
in memory of his mother, an
Blessings on the Harvest Festival.
I shall contribute an onion.
Or sponsor the cricket team to
advertise my undertakings on their
flannels in deo excelsis so
something is tasteful in
suburbia. Where I Am.
Hitler and Stalin are the names
of the dogs that roam our streets
after dark. Purchased from
a friend, whose sister has a
brother whose sister is the
receptionist at the business
centre in England.