I never heard them before,
Birds.
Nor cars
Three streets away.
There is dew on my hair,
My face.
Six o’clock
Saturday morning.
There in no-one
In my road.
In the precinct
Saturday workers
Looking at me, wondering
If I’m one of them,
Their kin -
The sacred cult of Safeway.
I didn’t sleep last night.
Got up, drank, wrote letters,
Wished
I was away from here,
A bike, a bus, a car.
Thumbing the hedgerows
Or riding
Some horse,
The hair off my face,
Eyes streaming.
The pounding, rolling body
Beneath me.
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