This cave is his.
His bag abandoned, his ****
Forgotten, ticket in hand.
His seated hunched form,
Surrounded by his
Burgundy fortress.

Enraptured. He gazes at it.
Nickel silver covers dreams as
Indiana Jones eggs him on.
Yet his equanimity surprises even
Himself. Motionless, he remains.
These dreams are for tomorrow.

He's got his pink trousers on
Today. The floor has his
Undivided attention, his trademark bag
Flutters empty behind him, his
Cigarette hanging loosely from his
Cracked white lips.

Halting, he lifts his heavy
Head, the sun crushing his eyelids,
Until he stops
The onslaught with his hand.
The clock stares down,
Disappointment objectified.

Awkwardly,
He walks over
The square, his shopping
Swinging
In his closed
Hand.

Slowly, he extracts the scratchcard.
Deftly, he uncovers the panels.
Pitifully, the scratchcard slides from his grasp.
Heavily, he collapses onto the shelter seat.

Awkwardly,
He fumbles in
His shopping for today's
Distraction.
Waiting for the next
Bus to nowhere.

You pace.
Watching our every move,
The graceful arcs of the confident
Contrasting almost poetically with the
Furious frenzied twitches of the
Eternally ******.

The synchronised swimming of academics,
Marks of ten to the best of our
Talented dancers, recalling each
Jump, step, clap with personal flourish.
The strings are well hidden.

You spurn our dance, fixated by motorised,
Radio synchronised monotony.
"Stop writing, your time is up."