Thom Woodruff


and little london married the motor car
with ring road she sealed the tarmac
ancient trees were slaughtered as a witness
in circles did each driver spin
getting out and getting in
harder with each day's entrance
until, on high, from outer space
lung doom appeared as cancer cell
coughing in the grey fog sleet
carving slices of her streets
into car parks, full, complete
little london breathed her last
exhaust of car and truck and bus
she was the best (and last) of us.

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