Poem (Coming Home)

Coming home to the Launderette
watching souls, tumble dry
in the damp misery of this inner city.
I recall Sunday dinner
roast pork on a silver tray.

My soul fattens besides the soapy
chickens dangling in the abattoir of
Mister Singh’s corner store.

And Anna with her bleached face
and battered soul makes love to
Zoe in this Ajax.
Heaven.

Coming home to the Launderette
I am that passive voyeur, reaching
for my fabric softener and inviting
loneliness like a cat
tattooed
on your uninviting arse.

Coming home to my squatting
ambition, I inhale death, stale,
death over the counter
only to realize that
I shall never go back to her.

I shall never sleep with my dirty nymph
under grey skies and cleanse
her spirit with my despair.

Hackney. London. Oct 1989