Latte at the Edge of the Indian

1 December 2013

No one trawls in this morning’s surly,
barely purling, grey foot wash;
only the toys of coddled children drag
in sand beneath a breakfast tabletop.

Between you and the gloss of plate glass
telescopic zoom there’s a slipway,
silver to horizon. Way out

drifting, shoals of misty shipping, and your
one fantasy of Africa ahead,
a flamingo skyline and Zanzibar.

You’re almost floating, yet moping
not ten yards over a graceless
cashier’s shoulder, the undeflectible
banality of a car congested street.

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