Blue billboard on the roof next door
   makes a square of light on the kitchen floor
   smokes rises from a cigarette
   there's a dull glisten where the table's wet
   soft breath rises from the bed
   a thousand question marks over my head
  
   turn on the tube but there's nothing new
   the usual panic in red, white and blue
   "military advisors" marching in the square
   knife-sharp trouser creases slicing air
   private armies on suburban lawns
   shoulders braced against the tidal dawn
   all's quiet on the inner city front
   i don't know why i should but i feel content
  
   bell in the fire station tower
   rings out the measure of the racing hours
   i slip through the door to the roof outside
   to gaze at the sign hanging in the sky
   that sailor on the billboard looks so self-possessed
   doesn't have a thing to forgive or forget
   all's quiet on the inner city front.