Every city has one:
Nottingham, Xylophone Man, Norwich, Puppet Man, Warrick, Dancing Man.
Everyone talks about them, on lunch breaks, on Facebook, on YouTube.
But ours, his fingertips pastel-stained, like the yellow-nailed smokers that pass and tap ash.
Ours recites, like Sanskrit, whole-bright families, chalk rooftops, domed mosques
which rise impossibly from pavement slabs.
And I? I walk by him, routine, two more heels.
I still don’t know this city. I’ve worn black, done that. It’s decided;
I will sit with him. Next time, I will let out my hair. I will bring two cups,
tell him I’m not from here either, never planned to stay long and when it rains,
we will raise our feet,
take one step
and slip easily out of this neon city into his warm dusty one.
Just like that.