The fire escape
is a raggedy spiral thing –
a rotten tin box of ribs,
have to climb it in a half crouch –
smoke up there, cigarettes,
whisperings, Dylan Thomas’s spirit
whistles in and out the sewer system,
and down below shouts –
pimp hat tinted pink in the late sun –
back of black hand cracks,
whore eats the three rings
and the street hums, vibrating silence
like a great brass gong
following morning