High street

Walking down the high street,
it's like I'm in
a dream:
there is
the stink
of last night's fireworks;
the fustiness of a charity shop
follows this.
Then I see petals in the gutter
from a recent ceremony.

Could this be real?
I walk in the middle of the street:
the smells go.
Then I see a punk
in the Heart Foundation shop
browsing the books,
erect,
hands in lap,
twisted legs,
knees bent.

Then the pasty shop fills my nostrils -
I'm not in Cornwall!
(Though I could be.)

The red
cobbled street
leads to the centre,
where four meet,
and stands a monument
of bronze, and rock,
and gold -
a cultured brother;
same source of minerals.

Saturday,
November 6th, 2010:
the shops are closing down;
it's half-past four.

I go to get
my bread,
eggs, milk -
stare at those grocery faces;
and then I go
to the library,
and then I get warm
and go blank:

the poem ends.