its warm
no chill yet
the
summer
and
the
days late sun
cling
on
bbq takeaway smells
mix
with
the low fine estuary mist
and
the
heat haze from exhaust of parking hatchbacks
is
warm
on my shins
the empty indian resturant
is
scraped bare inside
pillaged
behind
blacked-out
windows
and
i wonder if memories cling to the naked pillars
of
drunk dance steps
and
cheap
corporate do's
an empty plot
with
a
half rebuilt house
now
abandoned
layers
new decay
on
the
old
a man with smudged green tattoos
under
thick white arm hair
calls out
HEY !
to a younger man in shorts at the cash-point
while
still
50 yards away
his face is like a clenched first
he says
EIGHT QUID
and
indicates
his
white
shoes
the cash-point man
looks like he'd
rather
not
have
been
seen
i
look
at the shoes
supermarket loafers with afterthought tassels
eight quid
is
about
right
from metrouk
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