the showerhead
is a magnet attached
to a swinging arm
of a crane above
a scrapheap sucking
up car cubes,
and it’s so sad I could spit,
seeing funny bumper stickers
curling up like snakeskins
into the maelstrom
of rusted wreckage.

          the water
     thunders
down   
          
like those incy-wincy windscreens
past your hanging head – droplets
like a trackless train rushing
into a porcelain tunnel
in a city far from home
where sirens scream
down the bleached
pipe, the night
coloured in a
cool paparazzi
blue.