Wander from Argyle Street towards the pyramid shaped monolith
past the oddly named Benny Hamish - Sicilian Couture Tailors -
through the automatic glass doors of persuasion
up the revolving stairs of many stairs
sail by the portly security guard
(who looks like he'd be out of breath after a 10 yard dash)
along the imitation marble airstrip
passed neon facades and signs for proactive self indulgence
toward the carousel of smoked-mirror lifts
that take the well heeled to their desired destinations
without having to worry about their Chanel leather clutch bag
and newly purchased Christian Louboutin shoes

and I sit people watching,
writing this poem on a borrowed napkin
with a discarded betting shop pen

amid a horde of timid stomachs and twitching wallets
faced with a thousand fast food offerings
and gaudy coloured tables and chairs
littered in the remnants of repugnant non-ecological eateries
and Styrofoam cups and re-composite cutlery
under Noah's grotesquely beautiful steel ark
lined in industrial tubing and chrysalis shaped netting
and giant Art Deco toothbrushes
and 30 foot wiggly mirrors
and stretched rhombus sails
acting as a blanket barrier
to the blue skies and arched sun of the outside world
somewhere between
KFC and Burger King.