ALBERT ROAD AT NIGHT
It isn't dark - not really, despite the late hour,
because streetlights and windows
emit a glow that enlightens the scene.
There are few cars left on the main road;
just taxis, delivery drivers on scooters, and the odd bus.
A thousand scents spice the air,
from grease to the choicest Indian morsels
which struggle to combat the cigarette smoke,
which fights the thick layer of cologne
on the identical young men who swagger down the pavement.
A paving slab wobbles beneath my foot
but I was expecting it; this is not somewhere you walk
without keeping a close eye downwards
for the excrement which careless dog owners leave
like little landmines waiting for those who walk obliviously.
"Oi mush!" someone shouts, almost in my face, as he passes
but he isn't speaking to me, his gaze passes me
to some unknown point beyond. I know better than to turn.
There's a general babble of voices, much shouting, laughter.
At least three pubs are blaring different genres of music
and the cacophony is as bizarre as it is grating.
A man falls forward from his seat on the theatre steps.
His friend catches him from destroying his youthful looks
and gets him upright. The man vomits in a strangely beautiful arc,
and looks around to see if anyone noticed. Everyone noticed.
By the time the shopkeepers are starting to open
and the smell of fresh coffee permeates the area
this night world is all but forgotten. The only reminder
is the green sand piles where once was vomit,
the occasional beer bottle left in a shop doorway,
and after a particularly brutal night,
the odd droplets of dried blood blackening the road.