The Girl With Norwich In Her Pocket

I can hear the physics of friction
once-white cotton rocking her mobile
against the rough denim of her skinny jeans,
her ankle boots picking up gum, beside a cash point,
where the same two homeless men ask identical questions.

I can see the military salute to the road
as a white Taxi drives past, pre-booked only
conspiring against them. She has a new Nokia
doesn’t know the ringtone, her pocket picking it up
for her, me saying Hello like it was a question, not a greeting.

I can hear the snow shunting over tiles.
Its brilliant white about to shock the dull collar
slamming against their warm unsuspecting napes.
Picking it out of their shirts, they fling it at each other,
questioning whether it is all right to throw it at girls’ faces.

I can see us years before, high on first year
scuffed-white knee-highs leaving the club early
to pick up guys in Greco’s, or my first night working
with men hurling words back at me when I question them,

as if I’d offended them in an unforgivable way
by not hearing above Kanye West all the things they
were trying to tell me. I hear it all clearly now, on monitor,
you all going home together disagreeing over pizza or kebabs.

Where I am, there is no background music.
Tonight, I haven’t even left the radio on, because
Al Gore told me not to. I want to sing to you. But each time
I press redial I get your pocket, then put the phone back down.