here's the city & no mask of politeness
the old man on the hobbled tarseal
doesn't attempt hello
a strange landmark, the giant spark-plug
you focus on sky
not the means of getting to it
next door, a newly painted building
is made to look old & venerable
a man sitting at a side-walk café
in a gale
must read the morning paper
whatever happens
a lot of people parked in side-streets
read maps
a drunk asks for a dollar, I give her two
concrete, bitumen, posts & signs, the token tree
vertical steel & plastic walls, unreal colours
yet there are sparrows and mould on a post
& two men in suits sweeping rubbish
w.w.w. n.z. jobs co. n.z., it says
they take the capital letter out of you
signs say: London Underground
Murphy's Irish Bar
Ich Liebe Theatre
"Thanks kid" (Batman)
– where are we?
not many men have hair
an ad for a suit, has a spruced individual
in tight material & bleached skin
holding a ball. all of a sudden
everyone wants to be a juggler
a crossing alarm goes off & I think I have to cross
though nowhere near
there are bagpipes busking ...
where are we?
bleep! bleep!
"I'm on the phone."
when I ask for water in my coffee
they're grieved
if you're above people, they don't notice you
lunching here, in the balcony
I have a right to air space
"you'll never walk alone," the speakers croon
yes, I like the limitations of family