Western

Greaseproof tumbleweed
skits across Castle Square.
Clopping hooves
in the pedestrianised area.

The bins freeze, mid-vomit,
dripping polystyrene and strawberry
milkshake. Nutrition speckles
the paving: unwanted slats of limp gherkin.

The jockey rides in topless,
his muscular, pitted chest
thrown back with each five-fingered
pull from a Marlboro red.

Poppered trousers
tucked into white socks.
A matted horse rustled
from Mayhill scrubland.

The boy gunslings a bottle
of Fairy Liquid, beaming lime
in to the fountains burbling fringe.
Things turn a bit sci-fi.

An octopus froth
swells from the depths,
glooping out in all directions.
The jockey looks around

to see if anybody
has anything to say.
The octopus spits suds.
The rest of us keep quiet.