Gloomy, familiar, rainy Great Portland Street. Where dozy traffic clots and we all walk with intent.
Cloth tape pinches the arm with a needle hole, it gave six blood bottles, full, with bright caps like toddlers bricks; a silent nurse held the hand. Healthy as ever, dinnerless and late as always; every puddle laughs at striped socks of yesterdays dancing.
Black starched boys of the best of decorum can’t decide out of their politeness who to put in a black cab first. Their delays gives a gap to skip across a by-street. The telephone tower. BT Tower? Post Office Tower, phallic, cartoon, outer-space thing, marks the way like a friendly sentinel to the weekly haste of being lost.
A Fritzrovia mistake: it’s one street not two. Retrace in thicker gloom. The reading device in a fake leather bag won’t last in the rain. These eyes won’t last a lifetime but isn’t the little street grand? Everything has gone guache blue and echoes of heels in the detour.
What is the orange thing that slips hurried feet on the corner of Wells street where the pavement is little lit squares and pencil skirts in silhouette:a sweater, some cadaver of clothing? How has someone dropped such a thing?
Late for class but wide eyed and learning.
