The knives are out,
the forks too
on the breakfast table.

You asking what I'd do?
Decent bus service for a start,
and traffic jams to make Brunel proud,
- last stop before Avonmouth and the sea
in the morning rush hour -
city zoo, city lights, dawn delays
and dock side echoes of slavery
with every "Single 't th' centa please drive."
city-saver fare.
 

Transported from here and there
in the tense - suspension bridge -
atmosphere of communal cynicism
racking up the gears shifting  on Shaldon/Romney Road
leading to the closing school,
its rubber worn concrete rumble
drawing outlines of Lockleazer windows
looking out onto the morning estate.

Suppose we all appeared in heaven one day,
"A'right? I'm from Bristow, mate."
A spark of tension on the doorman's face,
his headset tingling with an unsure response:
"Sorry mate, you in't comin' in 'ere dress'd up like 'at."
"Likes wot?"
" 'at Bristow fashion, look."

"Tsk, Typical innit? I've just come from work mate,
in't had time to change,
just wan 't have a look, like
see if I can be bovered...

'ere, gert lovely wotsit gates, by 'a way mate,
who makes 'em up for y's 'en,
'at fingy place up Fishponds is it?"
 

20/12/01.