(Kings Cross 13.11.97)
in the gardens an ibis pries open
a wad of butcher’s paper as if
chipping into a motherlode.
street cleaners hose gutters chocked
with paraphernalia used in ecstatic
rites the night before.
driftwood-like, piles of ill-assorted
belongings washed up on stone shores
coset the sleeping, the near-dead.
pigeons and seagulls favour the night’s
harvest; pizza remains, thai noodles
spread like bright, dead worms
onto the pavement.
soon, after the blood has been hosed,
after the sirens have calmed, the birds
have gone, the first free breakfast round
has finished, I begin the day shift.
my kind, buys fruit and croissant,
sits in coffee shops speaking softly
of marcuse, goes home when the night
shift arrives around dusk.