Friday, 13 April 2012

NaPoWriMo Poem Thirteen: Deja Vu Pays Your Wages

Morning city light. Not gold or yellow,
not exactly white. A thinning wash
of creme anglaise rolled on the concrete's grey.

The baggy jeans of girls who stand at bus stops.
Poise that doesn't shift from foot to foot
or fuss with hair. A sense of being now
and visibly un-policed. Facade

like all the unsold studios
that look out on the river.
Cool, urbane, a British stab
at New York self-possession.
No-one home.

No comments:

Post a Comment