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Dudley After 6.
Piss stains paint a picture made effulgent
by the flickering lights of takeaways
drawing bums like moths to flame.
After a while the slurs of drunks melt into the soft
rickety-tick of cars long past their sell-by date.
After 6 is when the shops become museums,
a vague illustration of a different time and place.
It's when the street-lamps meekly flickering,
light the way for you.
Only you.
Occasionally a woman will walk by,
head down, with a long skirt.
But these are a dying breed.
The people out after 6 are the ones that really belong.
There's a different kind of elegance in a town after 6,
when a boarded-up window becomes a thing of beauty.
It's after 6 that Dudley dies,
and Dudley takes first breaths.
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