Inner Municipal Rhythms

He snoozes to the z o o o o m of the city,
the long awaited,
day light sun break
light break sun day.

The sirens of the fleeting spring,
the streets bloom to them,
while passer by’s are un alluded to them.
By the amplified mechanical cut, stampeding
through the m o o o o ve, the hurry of London,
which is never fast enough for anybody anyway.
I feel this selfish ‘I’m late’ panic when walking
mid-day down Baker Street,
excerting heels to meet,
route #113, where
the underground station
bench snoozer is:

Just waiting,
Hands clasped.
Head down,
just waiting,
for someone to walk by
and write about him. It must be capsizing.

Optic sunlight collides
with the warm vision
of smiling skin
through bus window.
From the corner of my eye
it makes me want to mellow.
From the mosings of slight breezes between my legs
my goose bumps scream thank you.

Allow the sun and the mere possibility
of todays flaws-confound you.
Hug hush you into the lower volume
of inner-municipal rhythms.
Tuned whisper breeze on just the right
free                                        quency
of silent London metro melody
Hushing us, down                      down             down

                                                          to equanimity.

Never seen before, not available in stores,
a congestion charge unpaid for,
above the inflammatory rush of Zone one,
unconfined to a core.
The incessant grinds of a circled line,
yellow moulded plastecine hurdling.
Pedestrian’s swapping, switching, shifting
like through the kaleidoscope you got for your seventh birthday
only now, adult self spins sights of loud urban colours.

In the inner municipality of
your daily London reality you behold,
your seated frame on a bench,
while everything goes on underneath you,
snoozing to the zoom of a season,
fluxed by a city,
spiralled by the shine.
mirrored in the grand rush while you,
just wait,
hands clasped.
Head down
just wait,

for everyone else to join you,
in your conundrum of a rest.