Underground, Overground

Wimbledon Common

no wombles

a windmill

a spliff’s worth of pollen

I circle a small hill

climb an embankment

fuck off to Roehampton

in search of a centre

the place doesn’t have one

just traffic and transport

that falls short

of inhabitable

one pub is closed down

the other is dull

a packet of scratchings

a barmaid with bad teeth

drink-fuelled mismatchings

no sense of relief

no talent to speak of

-this pub’s best

has rows of KP nuts

stapled to her chest,

pinned between optics

and exotic scampi fries

by laminated notices

for steak and kidney pies

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