From a tram seat and a touch screen, somewhere between the Gardens and St. Peter’s Square, a woman in a raincoat looks up, half aware. Outside the closed library, in half shadow, two men, half hidden, sit below an overhang, between the pillars of the Portico. Someone stands, obscuring half her view, but something passed between the two and one falls heavily, strobed blue by someone else’s ambulance, slewed, slow, caught between the Bank and Caffe Nero, sirening rivers of pedestrian flow. On Mosley Street and further down the line, as reasons to ignore rehearse, refine, her fingers stumble over 999. Between the tramway and the airport train a signal cut. No need to try again. After three stops a body feels no pain.
Linda Goulden the poems