Fitzrovia in Mid-Afternoon

The mid afternoon cloud
Shuffles
Past alphabet windows where
Faces of bone and alabaster
Stare on, jubilant
Fingers twirling invisible
Cutlery

The hidden moon summons
The cats
Who wail at skylarks and
Slink across crooked windowsills
On which I am sat after
Lunch

When I found my influencer
Secreted
In a third story nook
I pulled out a knife
And stabbed the empty page
With the handle.

Fallen plaques litter the
Curbs
Like enlarged bottle tops
Which tinkle when the
Breeze blows eastward
And scholars in crumpled dress
Ordain it so

On telephone wires are the
Bugs
That also live on human
Eyelashes, dancing to the
Sizzle of electricity and basking
In brain scanned contrast,
Distrusting of one another

Below roads where the
Dropped
Rain accumulates, windows
Are sealed to the point of
Combustion, all gaps and pockets
gaffa-taped.

On blazing hot terraces
No-one
Is solid, all that perch
Drift in mist and are
Subsumed by mist
And will be outlived by
Mist

Falling imbalanced off of
Streetcorners
Are slices of pure sunshine
Dressed in darkest funeral
Gloom, remaining invisible
To supposedly tender hearted
Paper-bearers

The strike of mid-afternoon
Bruises
Every part of the city
And as I am engulfed
By cloud and trampled
By cat, I stop to listen
And to exclaim:
‘listen!’

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