A Newish Line

D is my guide, meets me
on the newest platform
of a grizzled station. Even though
you cannot miss the venue, I'm glad
as I am late, sweating like a suspect,
and if he is here, the band
have either not yet played
or are thinner for his absence.
Either way, we hop across.
He's straight in, I hand over my flyer.
It's been ages. We all fled for London
at handicap intervals
and yet we only ever meet
when tolerating the old town
for our parents and Christmas.
The measure of months is collated
in the skinned toes and relaxed sides
of the double-hundred black leather beauties
they were hyped about winning
last time we met; some are Cuban,
others daggered, or else sport
the crepe soles of brothel creepers.
The facial hair waxes and wanes,
the pedal collection mutates and evolves
like a multi-tailed organism, but these
are hard to date. It's the shoes
that kick me for not ringing sooner.
Yes, and they are wearing each other's jackets.