Piccadilly

The neon smears in the rain.

Cleaners’ silhouettes

act a shadow play

in office windows.

Two for the tram

to the station

and all points south.

London here we come;

pockets full of saved change,

hearts full of hope and

heads full of leaving home.

A policeman nods

in his patrol car,

far from asking

ages or details

or checking

just who

is running away.

This moonlit flit

is ours, hours in

the planning.

We’ll be in another life,

before they know we’re gone.