Blue skies above, pavement seekers below.
Gunk sand under foot, washes leather toes
around socks under chairs laid back on tilt,
circled in the movement, between the cracks
like vines fed on a mosaic of cigarette ends.
The fries jump down off the kerbs edge, fly
little crispy lemmings, fly to the date at eight,
along cafe snack conversations, cheesy slices.
Savour a roll of the tongue, a buttered inkling
spread on toast with a dash of chilli reasoning.
Onions, tomatoes and pepperoni flavours
served hot, fingers positioned on a mate’s plate
for the last slice that has the sardonic sardine.
There could be a drink that really refreshes,
but the chatter oozes like sparkling water
sent from the hills in green bottle-like clinks,
and so the quench is freetime within a huddle
of friends to usher bills dipped in familiar sauce.
