Morning Poem... Not Really Poetry

Walking past a cafe early in the morning, a waitress hears the phone go and says, ‘it might be a customer!’ With cheerful mock excitement . A man by the laundrete stands as if he’s supposed to be an art installation, topless, dreadlocks spilling over his shoulders and with jeans the colour of his skin. Last nights green pickled chilis lie scattered on the ground as if they’ve died there. And a postman trustingly leaves his bmx at the foot of someone’s driveway while he delivers a parcel. On the train journey, a discarded football which could be as old as the 80s is rooted to the embankment by the side of the traintrack and the movement of the train is enough to send you to sleep. At the station I get excited about the on platform WIFI I can use while I wait for my connection, until I learn that it’s 2.99 per half hour. The zone name ‘cloud’ suddenly seems ironic.

Wednesday, July 13th 2009