Saturday, January 28, 2012

Riotous poetry


London in July. Night, Hot - like sweaty. Sirens in the air, Blue lights abound.

I’m on a late, patrolling, my Day-glow jacket, like a beacon, crowd controlling.

Radio buzzing like a wasp or two. Helmet shining. Handcuffs dangling. Goldfish visor gleaming.

A shop, popped open riotously, burns. Acrid smoke invades my visor, my nose.

A hoodied, bloodied, muddy, yoof, yawning, steals a Sony, the only screen for him.

He turns and runs. The chase begins. “Stop!” I shout but he is fit, nimble and swift

My lunchtime Big Mac (and large fries), breaks my wind, brakes me, makes me sick.

A copper can’t hurry when he’s stuffed with McFlurry, slugged by nuggets, choked by large Coke,

So, breathless, I lean against a rust-red railing and think, ’Am I on overtime?’

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