The cockney Rastafarian down on the street
fought the Russians in Afghanistan(?) and if he
doesn’t stick to his word and run the bad guy
on Watney Market taking money from oldies
all the way back to Poplar, he’ll throw himself
under a double-decker bus himself, swear down.
The proud ground floor flat owner’s busy
weeding a few side road patches of flowers
in the bright morning air as bus engines hum
and the skinny jeans brigade march satchels
sunnies, rolling paper and sandals passed
abandoned crusty sofas and damp wardrobes.
A relentless blizzard of tuneless beeps
creates a supermarket symphony as tinnies
barbecues, sun screen, gum and crisps
slide into a plastic carrier bag that will wrap
around Monday lunch’s Tupperware box
as a fog of recollection and discourse lingers.
For now, minefields of eye contact
shuttle back and forth a pick n mix of
fiery youngins forming their routes
content middlemen so sure of their stance
and the elder people wrapped in scarves.
If not a myth, multiculturalism’s certainly mute.
The Hungover stare at looping news stories
gradually expanding as if a cloud of candy floss
but there’s nothing sweeter than a liberating
finger pressing down on the remote’s off button
to make way for finally showering and acting on
the eager, rallying texts of a tireless thinker.