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Press Lane

Steam and stains

pave the way

for the late man,

whisky breath,

yesterday’s hangover.

He has been out

hunting for headlines.

His are buried in doubles,

grasped with a tremble.

He is sought – now.

There he is, in the lane

where hustlers hide

in the falling cold.

Snap the red door,

get up the endless steps.

Front pages come this way,

squiggles and lines, tatty pages.

They are dressed, primped.

The late man does that.

A rye eye on the words,

a flick of the wrist

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