Friday, 28 October 2011

The Moorgate Pret a Manger

Morning, first thing: they park up, merging
in dense, disordered lanes. A cup in hand
they drift off - few hang about - filing into

walkway traffic, through electric glass doors,
and up into turrets of juts and shards,
caffeine revving. Locked in this citadel,

the anchoring of order descends: high
tide stems. A long release breath of cushions
is sanctioned - an in-between stretch of space

where some wandering eyes dance to the crank
of speaker volume. Lunchtime, and the doors
are prised open like flood barriers. Set

free: a shoal frenzy swirls, feeds, fattens -
the top of the food chain. They carcass the shelves.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Inside, the air con is crocked; outside, the
wind is up and cups of dregs catch flight: torn
napkins wave like dying arms - or young hearts

fluttering. But the City's twice-daily
high-tide withstands it; the same spew sweeps them
in: shapes bobbing up against the till; eyes

eyeing-up queue jumps,
latching onto prosperous
currents, bleary-red.

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