2.34
a.m., Crawley, May Day `95
THUD...
THUD
-
CRASH...
TINKLE,
TINkle...
tinkle...
and
the shop front window of the StarBurgerBar collapses
in
a cacophony of glass...
I
look out my window
(which
is still intact)
and
glance
an
indiscreetly dressed white-jacketed young man
sprinting
somewheres...
A
marooned coated drunk,
whose
benched close by,
hollers
across to the two other street bound witnesses,
`Did
ya’ see that?
When
the Old Bill comes tell ‘em
I
had now’t to do with it would ya?'
The
witnesses look on coldly
but
their taxi will soon arrive
to
transit them to a shelter from these streets.
Who
was the perpetrator?
A
disgruntled customer?
An
ex-employee...
he
didn't seem to be clutching to anything in his stride
except
perhaps
the
satisfaction gained from revenge.
Three
men lurch past the pile of glass
then
one checks...
and
returns to reach inside the shop for booty
before
joining his accomplices with a newly gained menu...
as
they walk in the direction taken by white-jacket.
A
taxi arrives and the two depart...
and
the drunks head limps between his legs.
What
should be done here?
The
police will still take a time, and then they'll question and report
and
wait on The Board-Up Co.
I'll
witness no comic book chases, hear no growl of exhaust,
watch
no helmeted Judge taking justice into his own fists!
perhaps
this act of defiance,
this
smashing of pane,
was
somehow a desperate grasp at revolution
...
but wait,
the
police are here...two of them.
First
one checks the window, whilst the other radios, then the other talks
to the drunk, then all three
inspect
the window, then one retrieves a long-handled side baton from his
uniformed legs and
THUMP...
THUMP... CRASH,
goes
the glass that white-jacket missed.
What's
left now?
Can
this be ignored,
or
will this remain an anecdotal disturbance
of
my dreams?
No.
This
is May Day.
Day
of ancient Spring rites,
the
day,
now
consigned to antiquity,
that
was Worker's Day.
Labour
Day.
Blood-red
flag day.
And
it was only yesterday that the Labour leader consigned clause four to
an archaic state:
...
red rage is not required by New Labour, in a New Britain.
So...
it
seems dreams
shall
have to endure...
the
vagaries of white-jackets.
nr
1995