They are here
Joanie and Oscar and Tom
There is dhal and its hot
Woody and Billy are on their way
And I didn't use enough cumin
And Tam’s smoking cigarettes out the window
Waiting for tea to brew
the kitchen isn't clean
And I'm talking too much
Earlier I went out
And walked to the sea
To remember that it was there
I paused just long enough
For it to be considered that I'd been outside
Then I walked home
Past teenagers puffing watermelon plastic
And trainer thumps of neon runners
Walking past bus stops and trolleys and walking sticks
Pink hair, grey hair
And an old man with the most impressive moustache
I look right into his eyes
And imagine him as a character that I'd have written right then
if I didn't have to go and sit
And look out my window
At the tree they cut back last year
In the absence of its leaves
the pigeons came and sat at my table
I'd have thought they had come for a civilised dinner
if they hadn't shit on the floor.
But now the trees wounds bear the tiniest tendrils lanky and green
And the pigeons sit and look at
these other guests
With their own excretions
Paper scribbles, bottle caps and wet round marks on the table
Wiped vigorously before arrival to provide the perfect canvas
For me and Joanie and Tam and Oscar and and Tom
And Billy just coming through the door with his lager
And Woody at the shop buying biscuits and milk
Outside with the pigeons, bus stops, teenagers, and the moustache
​
I dream that tomorrow I’ll walk to the sea
Or write a novel or a song
Leave the city and head for the mountains
Maybe I'll water the seedlings that are wilting by the bathroom window
In the mornings soft spring blur
When the pigeons announce themselves again
Materialising from nowhere
Feathers fluffed
Putting their head inside their wings
And the green buds on spindly branches
Will sway in the sun and the wind