February 2

Sleep for the pallid boys inside, remembering nursery rhymes, peeling juicy grapes, lurking awhile in the dim little toilet near the clutters of spare parts and shiny mirrors, dreaming of the towering library and its granite walls.
Work for the potbellied geezer unaware of his stubble, cursing and drilling at roadsides, clods of mud on the sleeping pick-axe. The thin apprentice with his spiky hair and with blue overalls is grappling with something and thinks of sex.
Motors vibrate as dreadlock boy laughs at the thrill of electric life emerging from the city off-licence soon to regard gaudy CD covers in the corporate wall-display store. Iggy Pop in black and white is thin and looks gloomy from denim and a feather cut. Iggy has thin nipples and a hatchet face which looks to be dreaming fishlike on heroin.
Now a poem for the sad face girl going home to her stupid boyfriend or laying motionless in the dark and maybe stops to chuckle at TV. Pulling on grim clothing, family slobbering at TV guides and the potplant Christmas tree warmth of messy livingrooms and sexless bedrooms containing bright sad 1970's wall cupboards. And fluffy bridegroom clutter.
A poem for the frozen drops of rain that breeze and wet bridges, the lonely sun that comes out and shines brokenly down broad alleyways illuminating sad pubs where pipemen are fingering facial hair, or laughing at the pendulous breasts of barmaids, or thinking back to science fiction and the garble of robots.
A poem for the huge cinema with five screens, for emotion in the back row and loneliness and papery garbage and crunching snacks, or blond paperboys silent in poverty staring at the screen.
A poem for February.