I imagine a scene

I imagine a scene,
The dead time kilburn high road ,
3 am jump off a night bus,
even the silverhaired supertees are in bed,
their wives restless while they snore.
I am walking past the last closing kebab windows,
I am not drunk. I am not singing.
I have a destination in the streets behind Iceland.
Where mums never go.
The once wooden trap door of a pub cellar long shut down 30 years before is levered open.
I climb down into pitch dark, lower the lid and flick the switch.
I slump down on the mattress.
I try to make this moment feel as exciting as the first time.
But that sense of safety and freedom has recently gone.
Someone knows I am here.
And if one person knows,
imagine how many others also do by now.