INNER CITY STREET

A TRILOGY OF OBSERVATIONS ON LIFE IN 21st CENTURY BRITAIN.
THE LOST BOY
THE GOOD TIME GIRLS

 

INNER CITY STREET

There’s always a dog, skinny and black,

limping past two old lads, one wearing

a scowl the other a stained Mac,

heads shaking across the road,

where a child plays at grown ups

pushing a toy pram with toy doll

that’s real who’ll have no dad but

many uncles who drink cider from

plastic cups.

At the gate smiles the old lass hoping

to see the bairn, but mum hurries past

a mere glance offered, the candyfloss

crowned face now crushed. Back inside

she shines ornaments of brass.

While foul curses and spitting arrive,

common as muck and raggedy-arsed

lads, grey skin and dirty hands and always

gum and crisps, pieces of wood with

wheels and string, a stolen pint of milk

and the quick head needed to survive.

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