Brain’s not working for the real world today.
I tried it.
The street people made it clear
I wasn’t supposed to be out here.
Scurry from underground workshop
to historic reading room.
Feed, then theatre.
The life of the artist I sometimes wish I were.
Entombed by ceiling-high cases
of leather-bound tomes
which look down on me
and which I cannot touch.
Rubber sole rubs on parquet flooring.
The resulting squeak pierces the must.
Brings to mind open bright cafés,
instead of perpendicular sandstone.
Faces in the glass and the ironwork.
Silent statues yawn awake.
Thoughts wander
onto Deansgate,
right up John Dalton St.,
left onto—
can’t think in maps.
Scared squirrel finds sustenance,
squats on park grass
and nibbles at the books he scavenged.
