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NORTHCOTE ROAD
The cars are lined up like the warm,
tin coffins from the current war,
clunking in the brassy moon,
set out against the stones that stand
to hold the doors I knock against,
have answer to, or make my sorry
peace with. They give no quarter to the
raggy, cemetery fox, the shocks
of whirring souls extinguished, or the
jangle of the cells caught withering
in the rangy fugue of twilight.
I skew the guts of rubbish sacks
on fresh, cool pavements, paw the bills
of sale, the newsprint, fashion from these
waxing words the final demand.
And if they find me dead-eyed in the
scrub of sober mornings, still they
will find me with the spittle of
connection on my tongue.
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