blue billboard on the roof next door

makes a square of light on the kitchen floor


smokes rises from a cigarette


there's a dull glisten where the table's wet

soft breath rises from the bed


a thousand question marks over my head




turn on the tube but there's nothing new


the usual panic in red, white and blue


"military advisors" marching in the square

knife-sharp trouser creases slicing air


private armies on suburban lawns


shoulders braced against the tidal dawn

all's quiet on the inner city front


i don't know why i should but i feel content




bell in the fire station tower


rings out the measure of the racing hours


i slip through the door to the roof outside

to gaze at the sign hanging in the sky


that sailor on the billboard looks so self-possessed


doesn't have a thing to forgive or forget

all's quiet on the inner city front.