The televisions are humming on Suicide Avenue.
Scarecrows hang in the allotments
And the residents scream white-noise lullabies
Into their pillow.
All is quiet.
All is still as the street-lights turn off.
George leaves for his night shift at quarter to one,
Careful not to wake a soul.
Floodlights on; signal to the curtain-twitchers
That he will make it there on time.

The house-cats have broken out on Suicide Avenue.
Flat tyres fill the driveways
To remind us of the cost of leaving.
The residents quicken heartbeats
To the breaking news.
The teenagers send laser pens to the stars
In the hope of bringing something down.
A scar still feels like a mark
You have left upon the world.

The residents do not give a **** on Suicide Avenue.
Nets surround the disused trampoline,
Cameras fitted over plasma screens,
But there is no one to catch the fallen.
When solace is required,
All is quiet.
When peace is required,
All is noise.
The youth are lost on Suicide Avenue.
There is only one route to take.