In Soho Square
The weather is clear and I breathe the air.
The rainbow flags fly high
And all the passers-by
Smile brightly.
The rhubarb gin swirls in my stomach
And my eyes focus
On the things I hadn't noticed before.
The bags of rubbish bake under the sun,
Their insides putrefying and stinking
So much that not even the seagulls dare approach.
Dusty slime.
Slimy dust.
On the bench next to mine sits a man
Chattering away at anyone who will listen.
But this is London,
Where listeners are hard to find,
So perhaps the only audience
Consists of pigeons and squirrels.
A girl sits on a stair,
Playing with the braids in her hair.
A toothless guy cracks a grin over there.
I think I'd rather be just about anywhere
As long as it's not in Soho Square.
