The Funnel

I sunk a borehole deep into the city.
A rolled-up wedge of cardboard
inserted in the ear. A face appears
at the window, needing something
from the morning, conversation maybe
or to know that here is here.

We suck the content in:
a scrap of Charles Booth’s Survey;
a lo-res capture of The Viaduct
taken from a moving bus.
You hold that roach to your ear,
hold it like a phone, while the others
walk around or through you
singing Requiems for all the streets
they hate.
Don’t hold me up, white Rasta.

They unearthed catacombs, you know,
and called them shopping malls.

I stepped in marsh,
looked up, and called it tarmac.