The man rides by,
gas mask on mouth,
another man at the back
in the air-quiver heat.

Debris sprinkled
like an upturned board game,
unreadable dominoes,
Jenga bricks,

skeletal wires
that wriggle from
used-to-be floors,
a building pinched in

at the waist or flattened
by the palm
of a foreign hand,
now a crinkled newspaper migraine.

Three time zones away,
the crackle-static from the radiator,
low drone from the TV
as they frantically jiggle

their pamphlets
at a river of horses
that chug past in person,
on a screen.

Mobiles are hooked
out from pockets,
a choir of beers
hoisted and sloshed

between pancake-hat girls.
They have their own world,
as does the child
leaving school,

the bartender wiping a pint glass,
the single mother
driving out the multi-storey.
The news makes

a big deal
but all I can think
is we’re the same and so different,
so different yet the same.