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.
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.