Rows of perfect-rounded girly arses
Click, clack, stride past, upon some task.
Blue denim-packed and trimmed in gold,
Smooth, determined and amused, and bold.
On some business of girls, they pass.

Each fleshy hemisphere drops tight
Upon each firm-punched heelstrike
Down into the city’s asphalt skin
And shudders with its rising twin
Thrilled at its limit, click and clack.

One drystep found from which I’ll wait,
My own more ample, denimed state
Placed soft upon the coldhard stone;
Immersed now in the city’s drone
On this warmwet, longdark night.

Old and leafless planes, tired street trees
Winterstripped and twisted, barely at their ease,
Wear strings of softlights flaring greenly.
Roof-mounted strongspots sweep obscenely
To light us briefly, blind and tease.

A woman caught and briefly lit by lies
Leans then back into the dark and cries
In her perfect misery. Her mind’s collapse
Sees him buried to the hilt perhaps
Between another fond girl’s thighs.

One lastbrown leaf, dryblown fugitive falls
Gentle to my feet and catches on the walls
Tumbles, finds at last a single drying pool.
Its old and desperate thirst it slakes until
It sinks, thankful to escape this fool.

Those harsh lights flash and colours change –
Who thought I might enjoy this range
Of odd street staging? Buttocks numb,
Again I’m idly wondering if she’ll come.
The trees are leafless, green.

Fashions are tight spikeheeled this year.
Clickclack they bounce; their boys leer
Unheard behind. Red, coldblue, hardwhite -
Again intrude those savage sweeps of light.
My trees are leafless, green.