in a neighbourhood full of tenderfeet
slouches a road with cars manoeuvred
down the part of its glossed-over one direction.
it is a road at which hounds bay out cautions and
indigent grimalkins summon dismayed entreaties
for fare and warmth—where nearby residents
recognise each other by eyes, not compellation,
and people overhead pitch so viciously that our
own cots tremble and we strut ourselves in
entrances, where wheels sprint their lopsided
itineraries to get us to our meeds and nuisance.
you can't glimpse the centre from here, but you
can attend to the gentle drone of last
passage on the edge towards the crown.
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