Wolverhampton Station
1986
Midnight
Yellow cones of fog
from the sodium vapour lights.
The guard opens the
door for me
offers a hand as I step
down
onto a wind-swept
platform.
The fur on my collar
protects my face
I nod a thank you
click-clacking toward
the exit
and the concrete tunnel
and steps
to the Wednesfield
Road.
Moments in the
limelight
cars flash past
businessmen collecting
hookers,
young men returning to
their mama's house;
pimps in jacked-up
jags.
On Inkerman a bunch of
Jamaican lads
fire million-dollar
smiles
Do I want grass? Resin?
A length of cock and an
STD
I laugh and wave.
Concrete stairs that
smell of disinfectant
overlaid with piss.
Someone's wiped snot on
the wall light
and Baz has left his
mark
in out-of-date orange
spray paint
though I admire the
lines.
The lights are out on
the concrete walkway
though enough flats
light the way.
Home is the smell of
oil paint and mildew
and the grumble of a
boiling kettle.
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