NW1

somali matrons
ululate
at splashy late traffic
surging over burst water mains
and
little girls'
big legs
of nylon
under denim
conversely sturdily pad
their way
to the gig
these gritty breezing evenings
and make me feel
old
as urchins
want their ball back
and
purplehaired,
she emerges from number 30,
lights the marlboro light,
smokes and tosses it
out to this gumdotted
pavement where
late drones scatter home and
a beardy flat cap seethes in cider,
rolls his own
and coughs
on the bin-lined
front step
of number 31.