Seven Sisters Road

We rolled out on Seven Sisters Road,
two crates of Tyskie empty in my stairwell.

We were talking from the chest, walking backwards
crackling air above our heads like streetlights

beatboxing, spitting Maccies adverts at us
sounds of microwaves and ice cream makers,

night producing jitters in security guards
and a backing track to later chatting up

the leng ones round a table, telling them
we’re long-term ones, wealthy ones, footballer ones

before another pack walk in with their 501s,
Air Force Ones, giving worse grief to the cashier –

nights like these have a habit of splitting into shards.
Cleaved apart by a comment or a look that leaves

you picking up the shrapnel of a headbutt from the pavement
explaining to the officer that it wasn’t your lot who started it.

In the morning you’ll glue the muddle into a mosaic, imagining
steel in the space where your spine might have been.

Magnus McDowall is a poet from London. His poems have appeared in magazines, films, festivals and this campaign for Queens Park Rangers Football Club. His reviews can be found at Writers Mosaic, a division of the Royal Literary Fund.