On the tram
the sharp tang of us all cloys,
like the smell of
flowers
mating in the Spring.
The tram trundles;
our bodies secrete sweat
into polyester mix.
Our odours mix,
our thoughts, apart.
East Croydon station.
We move together
across the concrete, and steel tracks.
The Sun blazes down upon us,
silent, together, alone.
“Café Sandwich Bar”
written backwards across
the window
mushrooms tomatoes
scrambled egg
warm golden spread
on soft white bread
brown and red sauce in
brown and red bottles
Formica tables
and blue plastic chairs
“yeah, escalators are scary”
a man softly answers
his young son’s story
a fork oversized
in the boy’s small hand
extra beans – a pound
extra bubble – one fifty
and I want this moment,
to takeaway.
Dick Denham 