In the small hours of the night
my toll booth is a lighthouse –
traffic simmering in parking lots.

With my right hand I rename
stars on star-shaped post-it notes,
colour them with iodine –

my left hand scatters them
on the asphalt. I know about waiting.
Apostles approach from afar,

carrying a sail and seven oars.
They pay the fare with acorns
or empty shotgun shells,

knowing the price of leaving home.

Two poems [The London Magazine]
Condition of Flesh [bath magg, issue 10]
The Night Shift at the Tolls [Poetry London, issue 101]
Deleted Scenes from Childhood [Ambit, issue 241]
Long-distance calls [harana poetry, issue 6]
Synchronicity [The Scores, issue 8]
Fragments from Children’s Age [Gutter, issue 21]