She grabbed my hand –

caught, like a tufted

grove of hazy branches –

there were promises unspoken.

–

The full English –

an edible morning rainbow.

Then, it’s heads down, cell phone

ground-under-ground feud

down to centre-town.

–

It’s the skin-tight suits

the ‘please watch me not watching you’

as we shoot through this

time tested colon –

speeding train of Tartarus,

emerging once again,

limitless –

–

Chuffed, checkered, intermittent

chock-a-block

with gardens,

breathing –

assigns us together in the march,

a soldiery of urban totems.

–

1980s yoga pants

like validation tattoos – a rite of passage

for all who feed the push, heed

the pull, hunt the posh, herald their

potential.

–

Miles of scarves, stairs, scars, and stares (downward) –

brogues, bulimic beauties, and burkas –

pumps, pea-coats, pints, and paces –

faces down, chins up,

clacking heals, turning heads

chasing oil on water –

pooling from the duck’s back.

–

How much faster can we go

to get to where we always go

but have never seen,

here in jolly ole…?

–

Is there anything after London?