I know that road.

I know the way it goes on straight,

The way it bends, first to the left,

Then does a shimmy, sells a dummy,

Before returning to where it started.

Just like in the good old days.

 

I know that house,

With tiny, small-minded windows,

Like a prison with no bars.

Behind them, glistening, newly polished heads:

Mean-spirited, squinting

At the sun which never sets.

 

I know that world.

I know it’s low cunning, its backsliding,

Its daily dose of guilt-free riding.

Its smart terraces, with rows of dead diners,

Give way to soft surfaces and forgotten spans

Of memory, compressed into one life.

 

I know that life.