Flaking lead, spit on green,
walls formed the small leaned
over bar
known as “Bulkling Beer”
(No pub at the end).
Migrant driven cars zoomed, rippled the window cage, but never stopped.

It dripped with desolate machine roars
and those were the customers.
The poor shop keeper, once in a while, slid in her knitted socks to the mechanical fiend and grabbed a gawkily warm ice cream cone