Under the Sun at Cask
“New Islington formerly known as Ancoats.”
29 degrees in the shade.
i sweat and cool down
with a Hacker Pschorr
at Cask on the marina
again.
two men drift through
London Christmas weather talk.
the sandy haired fella
kisses the Pug resting
on his white monologo vest.
their female companion,
jet black hair – goth looking,
whole arm sleeve tattooed
talks Portugal nothing major
then stretches and yawns.
the thick black curls
glisten in the sunlight
under her careless armpits.
i try not to gawp –
but instead switch focus
upon the moored boats,
the youngsters strolling by;
i stay cucumber cool as if
waiting in an English queue
and around us
the afternoon stands still –
where no one stares
and everyone can see.
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