DOWN TOWN

It's late and midweek
and town-centre streets
are foot-fall-echoing empty
as I walk under Christmas lights,
by shops asleep,
bedclothes tucked beneath their chins
and snoring gently
if you stopped you'd hear.
Down there's a couple
glued together,
progressing to a kiss
and sex against a wall?
On a floor? Too hurried
To undress and on a bed?
Or slow and leisurely,
every move thought through,
and afterwards some coffee?
Down there's a group
meandering, wondering
where next to go, and
there's a man, hunched,
hunting through a bin,
man and bin an equal mess.
Vomit's splattered, and there's
broken glass, recording drunkenness.
I am alert, and rehearse
my strategy should someone
block my way and
want the time,
my change, and all
my money.
I reach my destination
Unscathed, again,
And think the streets
down town,
mid-week, late at night,
Foot-fall echoing empty
have a certain charm
not unrelated, oddly,
to a certain menace.