Ben River

It was a warm night, towards the arch,
transfixed man watches green lit fountain,
a panda car rests out of view lying low in the hand carved keystone.

Grazing on the fast fuel moonlit procession, the string finger, stick hand,
brass mouth of nobody and the street band plays fifty yards apart, in tune.

A resting ground for the weary until departing on curved migration lines,
with stooge instinct the goon host flocked in on buzz clicks,
slamming the doors shut for a shakedown in buy best.

Turn left at the hotspot,
down where he howled his last bomb for London,
to the monorail bridge and the skin poet spiralling on staircase.

Parliament was empty save the luminous guards,
passed the tower ad lights and faces in the wild out of work-lock
holding hands like comrades from coliseum chanting to the sax as a chord from one throat.

The blurry moon was hiding from the spotlights
at the forgotten bandstand like a cocoon in yesterday’s furniture.

The city was calm, kids using night for shelter resting in the blitz
away from the broadcasts on road, baying mischief like stray cats,
out of reach, out of sight,
out of mind, feeling no cold.