Spiral

Say we walk in spiral.
Circulate about the place.
Pulsate.
Circumnavigate in style.
Open with a poem.
The man in gabardine says,
with unflinching certainty.
There will be copious
rhyming couplets.
But no central meaning.
Thrown-out the way
you chuck rubbish out.
Down chutes to collective bins.
While whispering with that
old style of singing….
The moon in June.
And I have a memory
of that drunk on the 134.
Ranting-on about effervescing.
With a plastic two litre
cradled beneath his armpit.
I could feel the exasperation
seething from his point of interest.
A well dressed older lady
who fielded his insights
with the skill of a professional.
(file-away as accustomed to intoxication)
We shall fade out now,
as the bus turns into Camden Road.
And the ripple of people moving,
in sweaty exodus, head towards the door.


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