City Pocket

City pocket

Fredrich Kunath is running out of

World, but I’m resting from work

For a while, so I find my way to

St. James’ Square and ravel up a

Pinch of tobacco, hands trembling.

Behind me, work goes on, and builders

Grapple with drills: the sounds fall

Down from rooftops on all fours.

The sun is in mid-morning, and I

Leave the London Library (of which

I am a benign member) to walk

Around. I pass the Ritz, and the

Underground, and a tourist stops

Me and asks in broken English

Where the Palace is. His family stands

Behind him, bleary eyed and puzzled;

I point him away, and he walks away,

Brown hand pushing his cap out of

His eyes. The crowds are cold-blooded

Today, walking in the sunlight keeping

Pathways congested for a while.

At 11:55, I give up searching for

Nothing, and settle down at a little bench

In Green Park.  It’s a quiet space, where

London keeps its cars away, keeps the

Shadows of its buildings at bay.

It’s misty in the park today, and

Around me, people clutch their cameras

Taking pictures. I’m in one of those

Moods again; the ones where I get

In my car and drive around, wasting

Petrol on late night drop-ins to the

Mark Eaton Crematorium, to visit
My slate plaques. Will I run out of

World, like him? I stub my cigarette

And leave, swilling out of the park

And walking back to the Library.

They have some famous dead members:

George Eliot, Virginia Woolf, amongst

Others.

Running out of world seems fantastical

To me: I rather think he ran out of

Time.

This is a poem heavily influenced by Frank O'Hara's 'A Step Away From Them', my favourite poem ever written.