walk -->

Two apples sit beside each other
on a dining table set for three.
The fork points outwards,
your toes direct me.

And underneath unforgiven sun,
where burning tyres smell like hope
and progress is represented by
stone-terraced highways cut into mountainside,
we sit and haunt the scratching sounds of movement.

There is not enough time, but
you can make it if you just listen.
Birdsong, prosperity, one can only
assume, is in turn 'assumed' by
the sound of another town. A city of
rush and manic, where up at sunrise
means face the day with no more
than dirty dregs, tailored jacket
and a view of the roof on the
cafe behind you.

You hang your washing by the
diner, seeing mountains only in
mind's eye, while ignoring the
old lady shampooing her hair
beside the scooter, on a sidewalk
invaded by delayed action:
frustrated WANT.

10/2/2011