My talent (or my curse) is getting lost:
my routes are recondite and esoteric.
Perverted turns on every road I crossed
have dogged my feet from Dover up to Berwick.
My move to London only served to show
what fearful feast of foolishness was mine:
I lost my way from Tower Hill to Bow,
and rode the wrong way round the Circle Line.
       In nameless London lanes I wandered then
       whose tales belied my tattered A to Z,
       and even now, in memory again
       I plod despairing, Barking in my head,
still losing track of who and where I am,
silent, upon a street in Dagenham.