What's Unusual About This Street? Poem by Mark Heathcote

What's unusual about this street? Well, nothing?
Unless you've been locked in a time machine
Or a bookmark in between the covers of a
H. G. Wells book. No, nothing's changed.

Intrinsically you might as well have been standing there-
Chain-smoking, woodbines since 1969 no-
Nothing is ever-changing take a good look, look.

There's a clapped-out white Lada; it's got no gleam
But compared to what's around it sure looks clean.
There's uncollected rubbish, piled about, knee-high

And a dishevelled woman ravishing her cold meat pie.
She's not one bit bothered about the city waste or the flies
Some people here have become accustomed to feeling lost

They've forgotten all about hard-earned pride
Look now they're mingling in with the street pigeons
Who's become like long-forgotten relatives?

Relatives they care for like diseased grandparents.
But this street this tired old battered and bruised street
Doesn't show any signs it cares for them.
But hold on-

A moment there is something new now in the city's streets
Yes, just look around they're congested, but honestly,
Not by cars, but by overweight people, on mobility scooters.