night-time: the quays – a light rain.
just enough to make roads
and the pavement catch traffic
light colour: smearing all over
with an appleish red, sometimes
an appleish green. traffic runs
quietly – tonight's sunday night.
cars come alone to the corner
and pause, like bullets in the breach
of a rifle. over the bridge
there's a line for the offo. people chat
and kids hang about hopefully,
offering passers-by handfuls
of cash like they're handing out apples.
the moon's there. some evenings
are perfect. I tell that to god; he agrees.