There must have been a bus route back from Aggie’s,
Along the swollen road of Holloway,
To half way up a high rise flat on Holly Street,
But I cannot recall it for the life of me.
A brief recline upon a folded sofa bed,
Before a hop skip hike to Liverpool Street,
Unfolded paper planes read on the over ground,
Then under Ilford slipped away to work.
A less than tasty first floor occupation,
Five years in the making but still broken,
As a cord of older women without romance
Unraveled ‘til a nurse applied a knot.
Returned up north without a respirator,
And lost in Leeds alone without a clue,
A one doored house with two dogs and their owner,
And then back again to Goole to square the circle.
There must have been a point to this performance,
Or something to reward the exploration,
But its lost trip with the last dropped tab of acid
Did nothing to recover my first love.