Lunch Poem

Lunch Poem

Distinguished by layers of different dirt
builders, electricians and road sweepers
wearing high-vis jackets, sit together
in the café. They drink Tesco’s own tea
with Silver Spoon sugar,
talk about Government
and the score.

A businesswoman
orders a cappuccino
but can’t pay by card.
Time is a commodity
and she’s spending it
fumbling
for small change
in her Prada-bag.

Pensioners, rumble past
on cramped buses
that advertise skin cream
to make you look
ten years younger

People drift like waves
along the high-street
breaking against buskers
and dirty men sat on the ground.
They don’t spare them a glance
until their kids make them

Stop.

It’s Santa Claus!
His bucket jangles
the shush, shush, shush of dancing coins
that sound like secret sleigh bells.

A man with a microphone
singles out a couple
he says, ‘they have lost their way.’
They ask if they are hell bound for loving.
He quotes the good book
so he doesn’t have to say yes.

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