The night’s rain,

Has made the pavement soft,

With wounds in the cement,

Infected with nocturnal secrets.

 

Live wires crackle in the water:

The swoop of a windscreen wiper,

Reveals the astronomy of the motorway in red, yellow, green,

And the colour of cats’ eyes.

 

In the fluorescence of a takeaway,

The kebab-wielding moron,

Paws at her with greasy, automatic fingers.

And in the puddle’s oily glass,

Steals a kiss smeared in lipstick and vodka,

That she stole from the cabinets of others.

 

The black cab driver honks,

And turns his hand impatiently,

To the cosmos,

While the chaos of the stars,

Ripples around his dirty, eager tyres,

He can have my fare,

But first I must know the depth of this puddle.

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