Wakefield, Where Are You Going?

Kids are riding around on BMXs bigger than themselves,
and they're dodging married couples and
soon-to-be, but not nearly ready, other couples
whose six months together is enough of an indication
that marriage is the way forward.
At the traffic lights, by the music shop
that used to be a charity shop and before
that another charity shop, is a man
in this year's car of the year; he's an Italian looking
man, with an Inter Milan rear-windscreen-sticker
stuck at an angle because he was in a rush that day,
though he's probably from Wakefield, or the surrounding
area at the very least, and he's got tattoos peppering his right arm
in no particular order, though the ones by his
bicep are slightly faded at best so maybe they're
in chronological order.

Turn the corner and there's the teen palace
of large TV HD screens and shops selling percentages
off, though they're still making a profit regardless
of the red price tags and discount website jumbled-numbers-in-a-row receipts-

passing now, and in a rush, is the yellow dress girlfriend
with a left arm of army dedication tattoos holding hands
with her military, brunette number two, boyfriend. Her
brown bag is the only distance separating them before he goes off,
goes forth on another tour.