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p18
NEWINGTON GREEN
Upstairs on the old routemaster bus it's a tour of the district.
You can tell the strangers, sitting on the edge of the seat
as if something's going to happen. And it is, it's happening!
Mother is very taken with this quaint and inexpensive
place she's bought her daughter. Look, the houses are really
quite charming, and these buses, such fun. Daughter
is ready for anything, socially. It's her own space she's
decorating, just how she likes. As her mother admires
the delightful little green, daughter looks round the bus
and offers her sharing glance at me, at any one of us,
being part of the moment, this bus her treat, her party:
so this is living. A life is whatever's in front of us;
time is where we are and enjoying ourselves;
and a place is somewhere people like us can live in,
for a first few independent years, till we settle
down, marry and set up home, at home in Kensington.
POLICEMAN, STOKE NEWINGTON
Standing close up to a policeman,
I can get a free look at his
uniform, its unrevealing midnight matt cloth
and silvery buttons, its clever gussets,
and places for his walkie-talkie,
yes, his walkie-talkie tucked under his tunic.
Serious tailoring.
He glances at me sideways,
the expressionless professional
caught in this personal necessity
here at the cash dispenser in the street,
as if performing a secret habit: Don't be ashamed,
I could tell him, It's a normal function, we all do it.
Satisfied, taking a single circumspect motion
to finish his transaction and reinsert
his wallet in its place, he walks on,
a bobby in a helmet, upright in a naughty world:
he's a policeman with money, stowed
in the safest pocket in the street.
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