I know the way home
to ulitsa Maglen
as well as any
I’ve known.
The non-stop shop,
greengrocer,
tramlines in grass,
the long shank
of cyclepath
leading to nothing
but neon.
Auto-pilot
rolled me out
of a taxi
in the wrong street
at 2am.
No street dogs
to guide me then –
just a blank square
between apartment blocks
and the faintest trace
of flowers that grew
in an end-of-season goalmouth.
