Markings of a year can be subtle,
so can the walk home possess
many familiarities, avoided turnings
into alleys where the blackest of eyes
stares back obliquely, swishing
its critical tail;
it knows what you should have done
as keen as torch spotlight
emphasising a surrounding dark.
Its glance isn’t easy to avoid,
or its call which hits a note
of ‘what if’ fears, if let to freely outcry;
Don’t let it open its smudged mouth.
To close off that one-way street,
stepping into ones that give
lamplights a choice to be again stars
along pavements, that actually might
lead to sidewalk somewhere,
it could be the turning decision
that saves Gotham from a misguided joker.
Laugh at that diminishing, buddy.