Birmingham Moor Street

Birmingham Moor Street (A Journey to the West Mids)
by Joe Cook

I’m stood here in the darkest of mornings
Sun’s snoring and
The cockerel’s not squawking
After a scrap with my alarm clock
I’m on my way to my weekly workshop
Hoping my year 6’s will write about something that’s not Tik Tok
My destination
Platform 1 an optical illusion
Another dimension
The impossible staircase
Brushing past a briefcase
Still taste the toothpaste
Wandering to the workplace
Yawning and boarding
A flock of early birds migrating
Sleepy eyes suits and ties
Locked in
Rolled up newspapers
Midnight oil burns
Scrolling through influencers
Not chasing no worms

I stand still
In a microcosm of my metropolis
That stood still
Under the avalanche of
Snow Hill
As its surroundings are upgrading
Moor Street’s Station-ary
a Street Good Shed in a world of online shopping
Market place to track and trace delivering
Apples and pears to apple screen glares
As its surroundings are updating
Moor Street’s Station-ary
It’s a leather-bound kindle
A new laptop with dial up
A tobacco pipe in a vape shop
A time capsule
Vintage feel
Like vinyl crackle
Forgotten Brummagem
From the days long gone
The backdrop’s HD
More at home in a silent movie
Charlie Chaplin
The black patch Brummie
The city’s transforming like
Old school Birmingham
Same old song
Like Keep Right On
Its surroundings moves on
Landscapes reshape
Goes off the rails on a crazy train
Moor St stays in its own lane
It doesn’t mind the gap
A Birmingham legend
Like razors in flat caps
1909 artefacts built in
Tommy Shelby the Tank Engine
You see usually
My last train home
Is empty can rattles
Packed In like cattle
Big Macs in hands
Sleepy heads on windows
A return ticket to la la land
But here you’ll find
You can grab a handmade latte
And hand-wrapped bouquet
The last stop’s the yard of the bard
A ruff neighbourhood
Ruff as in the neck collar
Not living in squalor

When you leave
You see the Brum behind the scenes
The city doesn’t roll out the red carpet
Farewells from graffiti artists
Forgotten factories
Industry that ceased to be
The Irish quarter
Like my genealogy
Brum’s DNA
Fades away
In this hipster geography
Floating above the city like the Monkey King
Down Town Digbeth’s Digs
Soaring on the nimbus cloud gliding
A journey to the West Mids