September 8.17am
Awake still not knowing
The time or hour even of the day
The light as bright as a new
Clear sky intimates to me the
Approximation of open shop time
Even so the streets are quiet
It is not open shop time until 8.30
There is time
At 9.30 the open shop is no longer open
Though all the street is busy
The lights flicker through
Their pattern of the day
And the light fades and quickly
Returns through the brick-built shadows
It is time
At 10.30 maybe the day will start
At 11.00 the start of the day
Is over and the streets
Calm down to a hustle and a bustle
Of tourists sightseeing
And cyclists out-driving
The constant hubbub of motors
The sights they are seen
And the coffee is served
To a mutter and a mumble of lunch and
At 11.35 when the light
Is as bright as the glass on the corner
The brollies pop up over tables
That prop up baggage of merchandised habits
And chequebooks and cards pay the bills
Round noon the young girls trip round
The young men tripping round
The tables and chairs of the fat
And the fortunate few
Two minutes past one.
1.30 A missing hour or so before
A leisurely stroll through
The shops and the inns of any
Old street in town
For the tourist a nap beckons
His hotel calls him for dinner
And his tickets for the evening
Pre-booked
1.45 The pubs spill out until two
In the suits
In the laughs
The haircuts and the fags
The boxes and boxes and stepped
Upon stubs of American brand-named
Tobacco the half empty glasses and
Unfinished plates betray an ennui
Boredom and short sight
2.30 Swept away by the staff the world
Is an oyster for the titbits that go to the dogs
Even the boss and his immediate help
Don’t leave the inn until three
And at five-thirty they’ll be back for
A pre-lunch meeting with dinner
And a bottle of wine
Outside on the street
The tourist who isn’t picks up
An unfinished smoke and sits down
At 3.30 he is asked if he would
Care to move on
For fear of
Upsetting business
He juggles his options
Decides against the train stations
Instead settles
For a seat in the sun
And at 5.30 returns to the smog
Of the street in the hope of
A fag or some fodder
The City returns its money-making
Machinery to the cafés and the bars
And the trains and the belt
Of the green that England is made of
At 6.35 the lights are alive and
The moon will arise in the day
As the tourists flood back in their numbers
A show
A show
A film
A play
Some serious art up the river
The life of an entertainments
Manager is as hectic as he cares to provide
At 7.30 the evenings begin
And the tourist who isn’t
Notes the pubs and the inns and
The food on the plates
Somehow do not beckon to him
Instead he will sit and look at his pint before leaving
For he knows not where
Somewhere
The people are not
All strangers to him
Somewhere
The people will know he is there
Somewhere
Other than here
In this trap for the tourist who is
The tourist who is and who will
And who can and who wants to experience it all
The tourist with the plastic in his coat and
The bag in his hand that say to him
And to his wife
Or his girlfriend
We’ve got power
At 8.45 a creeping on nine
The mulling of ale settles in
And the tourist who is and
The tourist who isn’t share an ashtray
Of fingers and butts
The boss behind the door and his boys
Who he pays to help him out
have left and will drink on
At home or in clubs until late and
Regretful in the morning return
© scribler 2010