Wellington Street

Not a Duke in sight, but these streets are paved with gold.
A Range Rover – vantablack, parked like a carrion crow.
There are bones to be picked, from the rotting and the old.
A drawn face approaches; a window descends, real slow.

A tattooed arm, thick as a bible appears, a fist unclenches.
The drawn face picks like a sparrow, and then is gone.
Kids’ wheelie past, a road worker on haunches quenches
His thirst and life deliberately, unabatedly goes on.