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Cannon Street, 9.06

A break.

Some time to jot down words to later turn

By construction

Into rhyme describing some second opinion of my heart

As I look around and realise – it never left.

The stream of stereotypes that meet my gaze…

Yet I wonder, how many of them were instruments in our Design?

How just their existence meant that we would love?

If this man here – now switching hands on his mobile phone,

His green umbrella not done up – that you will never see,

But only me – had not crossed paths with this grey woman in a dull suit smoking;

If not for the Asian, British, black white rainbow of our race…


How many are alive?

How many are dead to the monotony of the day?

The advertising billboards target

And miss –

They have not eyes to hear,

Nor ears to see:

They are lost,

In the mundane world of business, running for their caffeine

To get them through the day.

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