we’re eating white bread in the sun

behind the allotments

by the side of the dirty little pond

birthed by Banbury Reservoir

now the swans come

past the spot where Jenkins tied rocks

round his bail money   threw it in

then hopped the fence

never to be seen again

the swans swim white elegant

past half-empty Lucozade bottles

bobbing with dogends

loose threads of tobacco in bright orange

fizz        gold stitches

this moment amounts to nothing

but we don’t hear that yet

our afternoon is warm & free

from shit-talk    pretending

not to be scared all the time

somewhere a newly-elected minister

maps our lives a takeaway

on his lap one eye on the TV    ketchup

down his dry-cleaned white shirt

but this afternoon breeze brings rocksteady

mellow sweet from Ambrose's flat

carries a whisper in its bowel a bad-line

prank call cracked with muffled laughter

…ccrrk..hahamph  you….hehecrrksh…will

have to choose shhhshshha between this

moment & a future…crrrkshhhhahahaha!…

on our backs    too gold everything

I turn my head

to see if you heard it too

your eyes are closed smiling you take a toke

pass me the joint

you don’t see the sun

rotting in the sky

the white swans are near now