Scenes from the road at 9.34 PM

A little girl in a dirty and red frock was dancing.
Round and round and round
her feet rocked on a steady ground.
English is the poor man’s language.
Rich with words, one too many words
so he calls himself a poet
and watches the little girl in a dirty and red frock dancing.
The night stalks him
and it when nobody is looking
is talks to him.
It hums its strange music, persistent as a drum.
Listen to it, listen to the night hum.
And the little girl in a dirty and red frock is dancing…
the world is not yet full of scum.

The dog, mangy and unloved, scampers across the road.
A black ambassador tears past it. The night is warm and young.
It just hangs in the air, does the night, it does.
Hanging there, quiet, wary of making a fuss.
The clerk walks past with a funny eye.
A gust of unwelcome wind sweeps the street,
and the orange light from the lamp-post quivers.
“It’s the city, it’s the city” – it whispers.
Then dies out, the wind, it does,
without warning, as it absolutely must.
And all that remains is a strange music
and two tiny feet rocking a steady ground.
As the world turns in a dirty, red haze…
they keep dancing – round and round and round.