The good guys ride out

Three wrap-rounds of the scarf tonight.
When I breathe out, I can pretend I'm smoking cigarettes.
Moon's out early, a cream-filled ramekin.
"Hello city," it says. "Why,
I can see all the petty crime from up here."

But the good guys are out on patrol,
and I cheer them on.
I switch between favourites,
I buy the action figures,
the Panini sticker book.

It's the bus driver with Mozart hair
and the voice of Albert Steptoe;
he's standing in for the nice guy at the print shop
as captain tonight.

Mission instructions from KV
on crumpled gumpaper, swiftly memorised.
Do a little something here and there,
a genuine smile, a free fruit salad.

Chant is their Q.
He is engineering weapons in secret, in London,
like the arrows that draw forth feelings.
They probably don't drink on the job, but
I would like to bring them all some really thick soup.

David Cain will join them at 8 tonight.
He said a strong tea
was the highlight of his afternoon.
I know he's one of them
because he faces the window
while taking a call,
scanning the nearby woods for squirrels.
And maybe it's just the cold sun through pine trees and mist
invading the office, but I don't think it is -
his glasses
are really searchlights.