i don't care for your politics i just want you home

The quiet fishermen and the even quieter doggers are
pleasantly passing the time across from someone's father's wheelchair locked up under the bridge,
and from the lilac door on St. Joseph's street
came thunderstorms and
a girl packed up ready to go away awhile-
after a tumultuous few years in Paris
she's comfortable in her own skin,
pilot in a long haul seat.

They're going home and there is no riot
their placards from the protest put down
(seat belt icon lit above)
and burnt back to make doorsteps for the fridge.
This is confusing enough
(2000 Pulp covers singing simultaneously) 
stop shouting at me to stay and watch,
new news footage shot now will be making the B-movies of tomorrow,
wrap your hips in that,
grease them so your pride won't fall off.
I wanted to get an image of a grey-scale
CCTV cull shot from above into this poem,
but it looked too much like a game.