The 19:05 was on time.
Its percussive tales pass like gossip
Through the seventh week of January.
Wildflower painted over wheelie bins
And City had just equalised.
Ring-pull caravans
Settle within the flurries of rush hour apricot,
Spilling technicolour over chattering water
And tainting a blend of traffic. w/Myst
& the thirst of many second thoughts,
Salmon circle the blue-eyed spires of suite shops;
Their revolving doors chew on the queues
For treasured memories (Sunday: CLOSED)
And other coin operated curiosities.
Nobody drinks the coffee here for the taste.
