as light came in through the curtains.
The first bus crawled up the hill. I made this
from a dream of my childhood.
This is the house on the corner. Bought
by an absentee landlord, kept empty
for when the price goes up.
Not in this town. The garage next door
was arsoned. Mum lives up the hill now,
I don't like going back. Nostalgia's
a type of arthritis for the poor
who live in the present. The future's
a new block of flats in Manchester at
a hundred grand a room. C-cold. Blinds
at the window and the traffic at the roundabout
never stops. You were still asleep and I
had the horn for you.