Blowing Up the Street (IP)

The streetwise old Tom twists, turns and cavorts

back arched; a kitten again.

Off his face on Catnip? I don’t think so.

The secret’s up his tail.

The Beagle, brown eyes squinting, pulls on the leash.

Eager to get his daily toilet overwith before

his flailing ears are ripped from his head.

For him, a day for canine dreams in a sofa curl.

Citizens walk east like Lowry's figures, moving

at an angle of five degrees. Going west

they adopt Quasimodo hunches, crouched

hands in pockets hoping not to trip.

Smokers huddle in bus shelters wasting

boxes of Swans trying to light their effing fags.

Seagulls march overhead hovering on overworked wings;

motionless ragged hankies in the sky.

The gentle river’s surface, turned black, convulses

and vomits miniature white horses, while the trees

on the bankside hum Whale songs.

Remnants of last summer’s leaves gambol; brown

hopped-up butterflies flying more blind than Bats.

The day passes quickly and the stillness that replaces

bequeaths the scene of a lost battle.