If I wrote poetry I’d tell you
About the satellite dishes on the side of the grimy flats
Like mushrooms on a log, pointing at the sky
In neat formation, flowers desperate for the sun.
I would find a brilliant way of describing
How the smeariness of the bus windows,
A filter dropped in front of the lens,
Transforms the Victorian school into an Instagram.
I would point out, ever so nicely,
That neither the convenience stores on the colonnade
Nor all the convenience stores on all the colonnades
Can make up for the inconvenience of not being in bed.
Because I don’t write poetry, I imagine you instead
In a different vehicle, at a different time,
Going down this same stretch of road,
Not noticing any of those things, not thinking of me.