Friday night is the Barley
Mow, Shoreditch. The four
of us sit in a musty corner
discussing our latest finds,
mouths open like goldfish
at the sighting of a Hungarian
or Dalí, the Slovakian bar-
tender giving us a look
whenever John starts to drool
after seeing a Walrus. None
of our efforts are worth
comparing - mine is an anaemic
caterpillar, for instance.
Oddly enough, we see fewer
'taches in autumn. Pavements
are covered in a snow of sycamore
seeds, the last of pollen
and petals. Perhaps the hairs
of men's lips looked skyward,
the way we imagined some forgotten
saint did.