A man made of skin and smoke
on the bus beneath the viaduct,
pointed out the odd black brick
in the giant red bones and said
each was placed for a man lost
to the building of its ribs;
said he’d counted fifty-nine
sons as a kid.
Polite smiles; our headphones in.
He tries to stand with bags in hand,
Traffic chaos; Man Takes Life, Plunges 100ft;
Boy Finds Medal In Gutter.
We counted sixty bricks.