No-Lighters

He left the No-Lighters

hunched over their laptops

where they would squat for the next

three or four days, blinked in the

bright sun reflected off

City skyscrapers, bought

strong coffee and

chatted with the cute baristas,

any one of which he could have

were he heartless, but his heart was

well wrapped up, a dismembered

corpse consigned to a

suitcase in a station as

left-luggage.

He walked riverwards, through

Smithfields, tidied now but still

reeking of butchered meat and

ancient executions, through places

dripping with great events, past

news-stalls draped with

head-lines about being

caught again between

Iraq and a hard place, and he

sought the river hoping its water would

wash him clean of being a

No-Lighter himself.

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