And you shall know us by our trail of seagulls:
noisy chevrons against a lemon sunrise.
The canal water parts with reluctance.
Some Fridays, the pollution is so bad
that you can stare right at the midday sun
and it doesn't even hurt - like watching
Pac-Man emerge through fog.
I am Charon sans tariff, sans Styx,
the heaped refuse behind me that fizzes and hums;
would that I could forget it.
We have no country. I have no shoreleave.
I am poor at banter - four ringpulls, my knuckleduster.