The pavements are wide and cars park right across them. If you're pushing a pram, sod you. The weak, wet rage of the destroyed. No one stopped. She's dead now.
Front lawns are lost below white gravel, flowers are in baskets.
There are bright signs and powder paper faces peer out through window corners. In the sixties I had a flat just beyond here. Two rooms stuffed with fervent bohemianism Visions of Johanna, Roadrunner, Doors of Perception, Duluoz, dharma, Bomb Culture, Needle of Death. Real needles in the gardens now, when I look. The road goes on.