Inside Old Street station,
I meet my Waterloo:
Aubergine Afros, primed,
shining and armed, wrestle
my gaze from briefcases,
from city zombies’ eyes;
the sweating on the back
of broad builders’ T-shirts;
a small boy’s arms running
with ice-cream: a bacon
sarnie in the happy
mouth of a homeless man.
Arrested by the sight!
– the light of grander dark
halos moving me up
and out. So I exit
to City Road behind
young Black boys. Black angels.