In the half light of the car park

behind Burger-King, underneath the fire-escape

which led to Shotokan,

at the side of sleazy arches where no woman should

ever venture, we were flickering in the dark

like sea-green ghosts,

flickering, nearly out,

like guttering candles.


There were others like us:

wavering, flame-like,

collecting children, crossing roads,

paying bills in sub post-offices

that were about to close

forever and perhaps we should have been

looking down at this from somewhere higher,

more celestial, from a cliff-top,

lighthouse-turret, or a cloud.


Yes, we were waiting for a half-life to begin

when it was over

in a back-street

called denial, in the suburb of not-yet.  






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