man & bike & small girl & small dog &
whoosh a slightly more than average pleasure
coincides with existing, maybe pottering.
a snarl from behind spectacles.
talking fragrantly at the glisten of a copper
tea-service element. vines creep out the back.
we sink into solipsistic love-routines:
scratch my back / butter my toast.
across the street they write to feeding pigeons.
i see something in the democratising of scraps.
allan border’s philosophy (his story) will remain
a touchstone but amplified in children’s ears:
triumph through obscurity. now to grasp a
nice broken sleep, ponder a muffled hubbub.