The wind had cruel fingers, scooping.
A shop on a little known street, left like grubbied gum
Pea soup fog, visibility reduced to less than a stub’s length
Which of seven deadly sins is..
Which one is grown up?
Tug with bright streets at lonely lights, scoped lens like these
All is given to the cadmium, neon, molten-red obscurity
A single direction of screech
A mumble latent in the music of the disgruntled
Which commuting mortals dream of,
but angled angels inside know.
This is for them.