Late in the evening I'd go out for a jog.
No-one on the streets. Just me and the pavements,
lamposts and parked cars.
Bandana round my head.
I was never very good at running.
But every night I'd go out,
at ten, or a quarter past,
and jog round the block.
A mile or so.
Not scared, in the dark, on my own.
I trusted the city streets.
I knew Sparkhill.
Never took the short cut up the alley,
behind the new houses.
Stuck to the streets and street lamps.
At Showell Green Lane, I was nearly home.
Sometimes slowed down to walk the rest of the way.
Into the house, bandana off, glass of water.
Sometimes a bowl of bran flakes.
Back to my bedroom, radio on,
ready to start my homework.
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