Morning
Nigerian woman is a faith fuelled peacock
marching down the road in her Sunday best
and every footstep
is a breathless
caress
bringing sole to concrete and swing to thigh.
With pamphlet in hand she is
a female proselytizing army, that
grinds down the coy
like a mouthful of bone and marrow.
Pigeons devour scraps of discarded Morleys.
feet glide across tile look floors.
4.00pm
Henry orders two pieces of chicken.
Samuel M and Jake? A number 7.
2 spare ribs, 3 hot wings, soggy fries
and a Fanta Fruit Twist. But for Abiola
it’s a quarter pounder
a quarter of a pound of off-cuts and gristle,
lettuce and cheese,
gherkins and ketchup
they eat
and one by one they travel home.
A walk down a narrow walkway,
and every now and then he throws
his chin to the sky and catches a glimpse
of their Twin Towers, lit like a postcard
from a Sci-Fi movie, his chest rises
believing
that it’s either one or the other,
righteousness or money.
I heard the architect committed suicide
when it became a sink estate,
but he doesn't feel it sinking.
Pettles down and leaves brown up. It’s
9pm
London is all lit up like a peep show for commuters
with a fetish for empty offices.
Most days I love my job,
But on a day like this
it feels like the apocalypse hit
The only things left are the bankers.
I finally make it out,
Tea splits,
Brown water falls back
and sour milk rises to the surface
of my polystyrene cup.
We vapour like a current down an oil slick -
lights glow lemon yellow against the dark
we paint the sky blue
and new tongues break in the morning
At home I eat and stare into
the TV’s day-glo haze,
my body ghosts till morning,
and pupils slip behind
closed eyelids.