Homopolis

There is my house.
If we stand
on the great dark whale tongue
of tonight’s horizon
and watch it sift the krill of streetlamps
and shop fronts
through its twilight baleen
and if we tiptoe
you can just see it,
over there,
due south of the great bear.

This is my street.
It’s kind of seedy
but believe me
the neighbours are really good.
Their moth wing curtains
flickering Morse,
keeping us informed
of the latest developments at
number forty-four.

This is my estate.
A web of mortar
divided into family sized boxes
and supermarkets.
Land of the buy-one-get-one-free,
home of the shop-and-save.
A jungle of traffic signs
and telephone lines
that throb in time
with the rhythm of the night.

This is my city.
Its flaking municipal skin,
and rash of homes.
The scarring of business-parks
and urine scented subways,
like hypodermic holes
leaving track marks
across its ravaged body.
This is my Homopolis,
my living, breathing,
poems, poetry, homehome.