people look so silly under the spell
of friday's grooving radio hum:
they trip and fall over miles of tiles
when gin tins leave their shoes untied;
its showtime under the ambergreen lights!

seven o'clock and motor breath
turns to head-seeking missiles, i duck
under a stop where frostbite seeks
to hide its fingers in my socks
"i'm not ready to end!"

"it hasn't yet begun!"
seven twenty and here's my bus!
a giant metal knight with wiper swords
and a two-door parting shield
... i check if my feet have healed

engines ruminate over their revolutions
and rumble and grumble on deaf ears
cautionary tales of last week's anteeks...
but not all roads lead to rome, fortunately,
some lead to queen's square

...my toes are warm now

(J) the moon forgets the day she was hung
up in the sky with comet chains; rung
like fingers, rings and bells among
...
every sultry blackscreen of purple-hot tar;
bathe the sins of each marble-hot star
[like cosmic change spread 'cross a bar] (1)
,
so screaming ¿redwhite? rockets dine in shame
of their solar jurisdiction! their lunar game
ignites the dame's afterburning blame

a sharp-dressed woman
spilt the stars across the sky
(her dress had pockets)

pixels might flicker
to recreate a wavelength ~
but we felt the warmth