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City
Square
by Wendy Freebourne
At its heart, a corpulent oak canopies this living rendezvous,
leafing stippled shade, gnarling furrows of convoluted bark.
The pavements showcase seagull shit and pigeons strut their stuff
like models mincing the catwalk of birdlife, begging only crumbs.
On the corner a lusty letterbox, round and ruddy, gapes wide
its hollow mouth, hungry for mail to fill its empty belly,
outside the shop where burnished furniture frontlines
wish-filled windows, attracting gazers freshly wedded.
Lumps of luggage litter spaces where guidebooks absorb the faces
of diligent seers of sights; people populate random benches,
bum-shaped and wavy like midnight metal foam
in this convergence of cultures, voyagers far from home.
To fill their bellies, charcoaled burgers broil in steamy cafés offering
koftas and kebabs, hobnobbing with pizza parlours, fish fryers
and chip joints. Tangy-Thai aromas the air, thickly jazzed
by the café on the corner, spilling syncopated rhythms
onto chromium chairs and tables, locals drinking lattes
and frappéd cappuccinos, al frescoed and umbrellaed;
another claims to be The Boston Tea Party. You can
buy a bespoke sandwich here if you're hungry.
Blossomed baskets hanging from pergolaed poles,
drip sleek and shimmering waterfalls and window boxes
hawk their multi-coloured wares like frothy blouses
hanging from houses and shops that sell recycled fashions
for ladies of discernment, but limited incomes.
Buses pass by on their way to anywhere else but here.
Junkies jabber their drug-dealing chatter, squatting in flocks
on the ground; their dogs all around. And a fag-sucking beer-smelling hag,
joining me on my midnight metal briny, attempting conversation
unsuccessfully, lights up and smokes me out of my reverie.
Gathering my books and papers, I feel inclined to leave suddenly.
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