Rush Hour

The clouds above London are tinged with bold but dying sunlight.
Solemn, suited bankers, brokers and bureaucrats crowd the causeway,
Long legs swing from bar stools, blue veins throb as pale knuckles tighten
Around dripping pint glasses, staining crinkled, crumpled shirts.
Painted goddesses smile from lighted shop windows,
And a rainstorm of black heels drums against the pavement.
I sit on concrete fountain steps, in the shadow of a marbled dome,
Asking no questions, and receiving no answers.
Smoke streams from my mouth, and I cannot help but imagine
That if I was driven by the same decisive energy and unity of purpose
As this swarm of humanity, I could watch the city endlessly turn on itself
From high windows set into a swanky office block,
And be the one to wind it up again, were it to lose momentum.
My desk would be of bronzed oak, with a small nameplate set into the shining surface,
Although it would be a pain having to clear clumps of white powder
From the raised gold lettering- I would just have to get my assistant to do it.
Crowds of uniformed schoolboys flood into courtyards, gardens and paved squares,
Losing themselves in underground tunnels, swallowed whole by roaring troglodyte trains
And the hulking red buses which prowl these streets.
I myself am being fattened and will soon be led to the slaughter,
To be feasted on, and left hollow,
Driven and ambitious to the point of mindlessness.


(Written by a Friend)