Limestreet belches Friday feelings
the overspill of liquid dreams
drift , ever hopeful for a pull
to where the music plays.
Stilettos click across the old tiled floor,
echoes fade from memory, for some
this station, their final destination
sit below no smoking signs.
Romero day dawns dull grey
as cities swap inter-city bores .
Hapless dreams fall to open mouths,
perhaps tonight's the night?
almost awake stoned culture warms,
invades, spits out what's left.
It matters not gallant knights
sport Budwiser breath,
or taxis, like auto rickshaws
have meters invariably out of date.
Here distances are small between
bars, busker's, holes in the wall
and all is capital 2008.
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