These men are walking slowly.

They have angled their heads so they are not

looking at one another. They are wearing

plum-coloured jerseys with fresh, oxygenated

shirts pointing out their collars.

Their pants are rolling tyres.

They are moving very slowly now.

Their shoes are lead-bearing ores.

The napes of their necks, little flags.

Now their heads are lowered, forcing the men

to stare at the leaf-blowered path.

A rumble is coming. It is the rumble of large

submerged propellers

beginning to churn inside the men.

They are walking very slowly.

They are assembling a conversation.

We shall not pass them. There is no room.

One of us tries and is sucked into their propellers.

Should we call the police to make them walk faster?

‘Walk slower, walk slower,’ says the path they walk over.

‘A bit slower,’ say the windows

the men fill with plums and greys, as they go by.

The men are walking very slowly.

They are walking to the university.