Betty – Nat Newman

This could be London, I think

Staring down at:

A Jenga stack of fish fingers

Pool of gravy

Pile of mash slowly sinking

— Costa Concordia —

And peas like life buoys.

Startled – 

 – dust!

The snarling staff plonk down damper

Which is free

Like attitude

And unwashed aprons

And the salad bar, almost.

Free, like my bowels will be

Around midnight.

Stepping out into streetlight,

The whoosh of buses and bicycles

Smell of grease on the road

And on my lips.

This could be London, I think

And wiping the dust of damper off my hands

Dust of damper

Not of trains

Or cabs

Or factories leaning too close

Not of a circus

But from bread – 

I know

This isn’t London.