I Don’t Remember, Anon

I don’t remember
the measured yellow lines of the law that edged the roadside down towards the river,
the telecom covers hiding protocols of copper strings categorised in regulated colour schemes for specific identification,
the obsolete church, reminiscent of Leviticus eighteen and twenty,
the chemically reconstructed asphalt oppressed into level uniformity and the attempts to erase fissures caused by natural Epicurean clinamen,
the telegraph poles, rising obelisks of standardised trunks, lassoing households into a national grid of co-existence, cooperation and compliance,
the sealed Pi r squared steel caps neutralising the drainage invisibly carrying the effluent of the affluent,
the “No Right” Turn and tri-light commands demanding “Stop!”,
the rigid metal poles rising, lighting our exposed faces to the scrutiny of passing inspectors,
the hidden power supplies,
the waste bins overflowing with refusals,
the bollards, purposeless, enduring pillars of organised society.

I only remember the hesitant touch of your velvet hand and your eyes glistening in anticipation of an unconventional realisation of our unsanctioned passions.