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