Tell me who is shouting these days at the tube
and if the same girl sulks at you in Woolworths
when she’s handing back the change.
Taste the pennies sweating oxide in your fist.
Describe what women wear – all mismatched vests
and sandals pulled out for another year.
Record the colour of the crates where touts in shorts
sit flogging Chinese fans or fake Chanel,
pick up their fallen patter, seal it carefully with slices
of bruised strawberry.
Don’t tell me about flatmates or weekends, look up
and write with accuracy of the sky.
Remind me how the night bus lurches when you’re drunk,
the top deck windows grazing trees,
step out into the street – send me London, gutter-sweet
and overflowing like the bins.