Kings of Tomorrow

Humming to myself on Denmark Street,
charcoal-suited. Shuttered stores,
N29s pass. Atop a post box, Eliot's
pinstripe trilby, him leafing a Metro.
These days, he hangs with black kids
and lesbians mainly. Once, invited
to a premiere, amidst limelit couples,
Eliot, the pale doll on his arm, a shop
mannequin. At least he had the sense
to dress it. We’re for the Phoenix club.
Hours of dance I can take or leave, but
good conversation’s a rose in London.
Tonight the blind songmen are singing
for their freedom, and the lawmen
who sought to have Eliot gagged, they
couldn't lay a finger on him. We detour.
Scrunched plastic of rainfall, in green
scrubs, I remember the anaesthetist
putting me out. ‘Sometimes,’ he said,
‘we dream.’ Unpicking a knot of blunt
railings, Georgian terraces, Spring
just round the corner.