Saturday morning, five am
four grown men on scooters patrol the street apparently for the forces of good
while a college-quaffed, patched elbow rich boy drunk waves a fan of torn-off tree branch he inherited from his father
it doesn’t matter if your shirt if collared and cost 100 pounds or if it is floating in a sewer drain right now, we’re all in the same shit
the sun is a crimson build rising behind the towers and cranes
as twentysomething emos chase pigeons like dogs in the park
the mini-cab depot is a hub for hookers and clubbers alike and you can’t tell which are which until you go home with one of them
“I have to buy a beer, 30 P” someone exclaims into my face with his hand out
not my problem, pal
simply a man waiting for a bus
