These shoes won't make it.
From Kennington to Walthamstow.
My heart is a Friday alfresco,
of sodium aches.
There's ballyhooed buses.
The road kebab greyed,
now blue sirens and blood.
Will I ever get some sleep?
And all the things I love.
The ruby in the dust.
My dad on the ward.
Are dying on this night.
So, I tighten my scarf,
on my thinning neck.
From Walthamstow to Kennington,
the lights flicker down.
