Lorries roll by
with the thunder of women.
The trees are like trembling whores
pressing a leg against the sky.
In the evening
the street lamp casts everything in pale
yellow, yellow with puddles, yellow the compost of leaves,
and everything not yellow is brown and tired and three legged cats peering through gaps in the
I get home and turn off the radio, eat spoonfuls of tinned fish by the window, drink wine from
Natalie, I admit it; I'm unhappy.