Grimbeau

A chaos of familiar streets edge the hub,

smell the humming throng murmur and burr.

Was that a car door or a suicide bomb,

splatting like a bursted, maddened boil?

We look up for more, get none and get back up to pace.

Streets wail blocked with beds and wardens.

We bustle along skulking, tutting, smiling,

Snarled, peering, eyes down, anti-heroes,

Loose limbed, bloodied free climbers…

But the main sport selfie masks –

learnt as toddlers when we dodged all

punishment for our misdemeanours.