And on the scarred, fag-laden road
Still soft with evening dreams, molten lamp-light
Gentle haggard sidewalk.
Outside cinema where in afternoons the kids would gather
In long worried lines, buzzing all doleful excitement.
Sweet-shop next door, sleepily guarded but open,
Sunday afternoons the best, innocent leaning against hoardings.
We were innocent; i insist on that.
Soft and anxious for inside, inside.
There were kids wrapped in bright sports clothes,
Soft and full of lust for the movie.
Carpet hush inside, the spirit flickers and filters on the threshold.
Smell of hot-dogs on a lazy Saturday, yellow electric light in one cloistered discreet window. The proprietor, a bespectacled Englishman, calls out, shuffling businesslike to grey pavement.
We went sallow-faced after buying ticket up grey stairs, carpeted and winding to the secret summit. Oh plastic whiteness, oh unthinking technicolour. Eyes affixed on screen.
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