Hot Sunday traffic

Hot Sunday traffic

Dystopian trucks

Oversized rollers

Blue smoke billowing

Pedestrians are as endangered

As the environment

Blow by blow

The accounts are read

First hand

There are no winners

In retrospect

All of the playthings were

Freely given

When social mobility

Was about more than the right

To drive

And boots were made for walking

Not kicking heels

In clusters.

Building relationships

Is as scary as a group

Of youngsters throwing

Clockwork oranges

Left of centre

Hoping to find meaning

In a solitary conversation

Memed between mutants

Hiding in plain sight

Dressed as people

With an eye for detail.

All around

The world is radioactive

And the air turns

Steel-blue, electric blue

Hung with the dust

Of rust-blown

Hollowed-out

Exhausted strangers

Gasping for breath.