On the verge of elsewhere
Blown back fumes and grit
Modern-day soot collects
As they fly past and fling bits
Of card and foam. I kick it
Used to stamp
into dead leaves
Their waste, now step aside
Outside this, my painting.
Here it all intersects: North
Or South. No such change of smell
But sickly as you step forth
To choose, choose, don’t fail
To dodge the dog shit.
Is a place the sewer-rats, they
Inhabit the shocking drabness
Lone packs flat and dripping wet:
Cheap haircuts. Whorish half-child
Adults left pushing along, from
Their load to and from each end
To the dead end’s iron railing.