The Wrong Side of Town

The Wrong Side of Town

The Wrong Side of Town

It was the wrong side of town for pedestrians.

Classic motors took up every inch of kerb-space –
nifty cream models upholstered in suede,
blood-red hotrods with detachable rooftops;
a prideful display of virility in chrome.

It was the wrong side of town for poor dressers.

Unhealthy, in your hand-me-downs, you ambled
in on a traffic of bodies dressed to impress.
Cosmeticised creatures in silver and gold
slipped demurely into taxicabs. Senile codgers,
winking in the windows of The Club Elite,
flashed laser creases, snow-capped teeth.

There was no-one you knew among the retouched faces.
No-one you knew in the lava-lamp-lit doorway of The Bamboo Palace.
No-one you knew muttering prayers and salutations at the parking-meters.
No-one you knew drooling the blues into a banged-up Hohner.

It was the wrong side of town for a green, trusting boy.

From your first step over the line you were under the radar,
tracked by the heat of an eye ever-looking
for someone obtrusive like you.
Foolhardy as Christ on the wrong side of the town.