The Enemy Who Drives

I’m in a remote housing estate, in the foothills of Dartmoor. Anarchist poets are causing trouble. They have a PA system, and are shouting obscene rhymes about local dignitaries. The locals aren’t happy. I see a crowd with iron bars approaching. I decide to leave. I walk to Ide, looking for a bus. I stop to buy cakes for the journey. At the bus stop, a Jali with a kora asks me if it is legal for him to play his harp and busk here. His face is disfigured on one side. I tell him that here he is free to do whatever he loves as an artist. 
A group of detectives enter. They approach me. They say I match a description of one of the anarchists they are looking for. One asks me if I have any poetry apps on my iPhone. Yes, I confirm. But slam poetry was never my thing. Too competitive. The detectives seem to be happy with this answer, or have a poor description of me. They leave. I leave shortly after, aware of the limitations of walking against an enemy who drives. 


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