mr nothing looked at the poet regulating the traffic
on a window ledge invaded by firebugs
and returned to wiping his fountain pen
as if it would clear his thoughts in the process
he found a secret merriment in taking apart his time
as an impersonator striving for every punctuation mark
collecting monologs in tandem and old photographs
of children and elderly using handrails
back then a mutual acquaintance brought him a picture
of the girl in a red scarf but he missed the chance
to tell her about the river don of granite city
or the scent of the north sea in bonfire night
she may never answer to an old neighbour’s ay ay fit like
or burst out laughing as she runs to the mercat cross
when the rain comes down on a summer day
this is the privilege of dreamers and their dreams
hidden pilcrow 