Feet, nevermore good
Boutique coffee steams cheap, chic art,
this is the way we do it,
measuring each minute square – lemon, chocolate, caramel –
the server sighs, clucks her tongue’s bisections,
deigns to pass us clumsy, plastic forks – a table’s inconvenient,
but we’re happy balancing on close-set knees,
‘cause the downpour won’t stop,
and our shoes, too stylish for water,
are saved.
Snooty bags in the opposite chi-chi shop,
drape languidly,
mimic lipsticked models
stealing a smoke,
look askance at our knock-off totes,
like grumbling Nick
spews tobacco from his newsstand,
who wants papers on a wet day, but for a hat?
Like medicine in a sick mouth,
storm sewers regurgitate rain,
young students in shiny boots
cross against the hand,
twitter and giggle,
umbrellas hover glossy upsweeps,
and it’s a good thing too,
Nick misses, tilting forward on his elderly stool,
hawks for the sport of it,
his aim is faulty, or maybe
they are too quick.
A daguerreotype in cracked Morocco,
his sooty silhouette snaps shut,
seeps into the dusk,
shuffling vile, backless slippers
from the second hand store skip,
nods to the stone-ship bank,
she’s free, proud, full-sheeted,
where his arid coin rests, unmolested,
disregards his useless, dragging legs,
no point in spending needless cash
on waterproofs,
on sturdy shoes,
on feet, nevermore good.