Street Sounds

I hear those drunk boymen
whistle their bath stains
along by the taxi arcade
crew mouth and the Cabbage Hall
at red light ticking over.
I lie awake as left to right
traffic passes
Drunk boys help me sleep
Heavy goods and bus brakes
Keep me up.

Human expression no matter how
wild is a comfort to me
up here safe on high.
The moving of traffic is like a
threat, a commentary, a judgement.
They stake their noisy claim that this
is a place for movement, not for rest,
not even drunken shouting at the kebab shop.
Not for church bells on wednesday night.
Not for Islington in Bloom.
The relentless filthy draughts that sweep over the
carefully laid hanging baskets of flowers
soon leave them dead and sooted.

No the traffic is telling me I am
in the wrong place. It doesn't want me
to lie in my bed feeling the magical
stillness of the night that all my
ancestors did.
No the traffic has greater rights than
me in this location.
If one of my flatmate's push-up bra
inserts blew out of the window and landed
on a windshield causing a car to
knock down a pedestrian.
Then that would be a gift.
For the police tape would halt those beasts
for a while.

I long for peaceful nights.
They are sacred now to me.
I once took them for granted.
Now a holiday means rest from
noise as well as work.
This can't go on.