And here slip I — dragging one foot in the gutter —
in the midnight echo of the shop that sells cheap
radios.
And there sits she — no bed, no bread, no butter —
on a double yellow line — where she can park anytime.
Old Lady Grey; crash-barrier waltzer —
some only son’s mother. Baker Street casualty.
Oh, Mr. Policeman — blue shirt ballet master.
Feet in sticking plaster —
move the old lady on.
Strange pas-de-deux —
his Romeo to her Juliet.
Her sleeping draught, his poisoned regret.
No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in the
crowded emptiness.
Oh officer, let me send her to a cheap hotel —
I’ll pay the bill and make her well — like hell you
bloody will!
No do-good over kill. We must teach them
to be still more independent.
