Day 21 - Sunday

The legs are pistons
The pavement is a packaging belt in a factory,
a staccato hard to dodge as moderate rain
A heel shatters a piece of chalk
the moment it hits the concrete,
spitting the shards out
like broken teeth
Plexiglass panels have been hammered
into see-through Roman mosaics
Pubs are ribboned with plastic St. George flags
Two people collapse
from sunstroke
A driver hollers, "Pullover!" at a red van
Water is cut by the misty runway
of a pochard taking off,
while nearby, a heron in a willow
bundles itself, as if for storage,
occasionally pin-pricks the surface to drink
A barge in the Paddington basin stinks
In my kitchen, I lick my knife
and wet my thumb where a mishandled staple
put its full stop