88/ I don’t know who you are

I don’t know who you are;
in the club, low ceiling.
He’s down. It’s done.
Quick as Concorde in the back of the police van.
And on the last bus,
running for nearly no-one,
she leans over, radio on.
“I don’t know why you don’t want me,
I’ve got a home,”
leans back,
checks for messages on the phone.

We all have a mobile now,
put our photos on line.