Tarmac Adam

Hard-hat of the road he stands
indifferent to the sparkle of a passer-by.

Like an oily fruit, jammed fast in
Victorian incrassate boots, his rake

pulls him this way and that, frolics
in the black, guides him along the

steamy lido of his dreams. A call
will go up at any time, most likely

from Mr Quinoline, boiling the tar.
He summons Adam at twelve thirty sharp

and they down tools together, wade
with great ceremony along their hot, sticky

bed to The George for a pint and crib.
Each night his wife lays a paper-trail to

the bath, scrubs his arms, ignores
his rough throat. Mumbling in his sleep

she tries to catch words before smack
go the lips, he turns, and tastes the road.