I suckled at the exhausts of buses,
weaned myself onto cigarette butts from gutters.
I sloughed off the cul de sac, my christening jacket,

to nest at street level. The grime was regal.
Each binman dawn was a diesel chorus
luring me into a cacophonous forest.

Buskers and road drills were permissive ushers.
Manholes flew open onto underground wishes.
Downwind of Babel, knee high to all

the dystopia, cornucopia, I found I could fly
from a standing leap. Crowdsurfing the tide
on Oxford Street, ecstatic spume,

and my mind a traffic light – green; green; green.