Antony Nicholls
One for the Weekend
Boarding the Friday tube, I see it parked,
a cold and quite huge turd, prickling. Sunlight
stops just short of it. I turn. Somewhere, years
and miles since, this would be a real morning.
A hundred tonnes of dog faeces a day
piles on London. But this mound is human,
dumped perhaps with slow deliberation,
or in brief, quickly disposed extremity.
I can’t wait to return to you. Once
I thought love was excited by the self
shown itself, some moment in a life
free and unspoken. Dead for days, now this.
Senses awoken, like some parasite,
I sit, eyes shut, and nostrils full of it.
Page(s) 33
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