Kings Cross Dream

There was noise on the street.
A commotion.
Loud, excited voices staccato'd.
Carrying four floors up to a city sanctuary.
Where an open fire burnt in a grate bigger than the bed.
The landlord had hung new wall paper and an odd assembly of paintings.
The landlord's wife had paid an unwelcomed visit in the morning.
And disappeared down the stairs.
Her back full of a shrug for the girl who'd flapped her away.
A wild-haired, wide-eyed slightly hooky girl.
As the clamour rose the girl looked down from her window.
It was kids.
In street clothes and big black cars.
They'd kidnapped a young boy, a gang member.
They had him in the back of a car and punched him over and over.
The moons of their boxer short bums crescented over their low slung jeans.
No faith.
Girls looked on from the fringe.
Addled eyes rheumy and wide.
The noise stopped with the girl.
She picked up the phone.
Pressed 999.
Looking on at the anal raping scene.
They soon arrived blue twinkles and sirens.
By then it was all over for her and him.

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