Midwinter, the dream is over.
Fleeting thoughts of becoming 
superfit- better. The shoppers
stutter on. A stream of elders, 
Mothers. Sleep.

WHAT DID YOU GET FOR CHRISTMAS?
What I always get.

NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS?
Keep on. And ask

QUESTIONS.

Walthamstow. All the faces,
this one like a smashy dumpling, 
a currant bun. There a fox-
sparrows on a pulsing line,
full of Adele's Hello-

each word a ghost. Pushchairs
rattle, big with bones. Milk
forms soft in the corners of mouths,
and the echo in Costa rounds out 
like ripples from a hard lobbed rock.