Say we walk in spiral.
Circulate about the place.
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.

One response to “Spiral

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