Last Train Chemist Lights
The off-licence is shut.
Its shutter’s down like a verdict.
The chicken shop is breathing its final greasy breath.
A takeaway carton keeps doing laps round a drain
like it has nowhere better to be,
which, to be fair, is also one way of describing love.
And there, halfway down the high street,
the chemist is still open—
buzzing white over the wet pavement,
over t…
