Tourism (Car Parks & Alleys)

I see it all from here,
crooks, dealers, drunkards
and lovers.

This must be
where God comes
to watch over His masses.

In the left wing
I spy a lady
yelling at something.

When I look right
I notice her husband ballooned with bags
being nagged to the core.
Right mirror at the wrong time.

I flick the radio on
to drown the din,
a newsflash reveals another sin.

I lurk;
from the rear view
I spot a drunkard sleeping,
and quickly snap my neck away.
I see that reflection every day.

Darkness descends,
surely this is the place
for angels.

Through shadows
I see two lovers stop,
their tongues entwined.

Slowly I wind the window down
to hear a sound
I can barely remember.
My skin has long forgotten
what it is to touch
and so I watch.

The yellow light of the car park
makes the lovers look like corpses,
as dead as I.

The woman leans against
the graffiti scribbled wall
and almost disappears.

I watch as her hands
run down her mates back
like a fishmonger stroking a kipper.

The drunkard behind
has gone,
if drunkard he was.
I see no empty bottle
or discarded plastic bag,
I smell no urine.
Angels play tricks
and they love disguises.

The gothic erotica
continues in front of me,
they are alone as I sink into my seat
to lust on chic breasts and muscle.

I wait
I watch,
I listen.

My eyes are everywhere
tonight.
I feel a part of something
and yet as I watch the bodies
end their loving,
a tear on my cheek
floods the million miles
between us.

This hulking shadow is where I can see
no drunkards or lovers really.
And when the neon dims
the blindness comes.
I fold up the glass
deaf I am now...

@Steven Francis poems 2001