You left me hope

I don't need purple hair
and a soapbox shout

I am a living statue
in scrubby parkland
and they stop to stare.

They turn, some return,
some give.

They see the winged harp
and hear the music of
a dark legacy,
the kiss of bottled air
my metronome.

Beneath the folded sheet
my hidden foot
closeted in a Doc Marten
throbs to a different beat.

At night under the arches
I practise breath control
my goal - a Pro Street Rapper.