The City

Taste it with the tip of your comatose tongue,

happiness in its endlessly salivating form.

Wrap it around your little pinkie finger,

dipped in a deceivingly clean skyline,

replaced by Ben’s nine foot hour hand,

as its chimes silence the heavy noises

of multicultural underground feet

going nowhere, anywhere, somewhere,

ignoring the virtue of right handed patience,

so they can arrive a quarter of a minute

before the stipulated time.

Smell it with the nostrils of your oversensitive nose,

the calm cold winter air penetrating your lungs.

Suck yourself into this pleasurable whirlwind

of feisty independence, vinegared by

unrecognisable enigmas

in warrior-like suits,

cleverly crafted in such a way

so as to avoid scented shadows

from escaping to the beyond.

Hold on to it before see you laters turn

into temporary goodbyes,

before familiar certainties question your attempt
at playing nice.