The wee beige-bummed mongrel
patters past the Pizza-Palace,
pauses to pee
on a polystyrene carton,
pauses to sniff
at his balls,
then barrels-off across the road
doggedly,
taking the corner with a frivolous flounce
of a furbelow tail.
Dissonant in the distance,
the jingle jangle jolly
of an ice-cream van
clamouring through concrete,
clattering past the cordon
of a row of flats,
cutting
like a cutlass,
like a klaxon,
like the curdling colic grizzle
of a crying child.

Someone’s growing rhubarb in a garden,
a hooded boy takes pot-shots with a sling.
The textile shop has a half-price sale,
a carpenter splits his thumb on a nail
and the girl in the sauna
removes her wedding ring.

The wee beige-bummed mongrel
pooters past the Peking Palace,
pauses to poke
at a pile of paper wrappings,
pauses to lick
at his ar se,
then skittles-off across the street
snappily,
skirting a skoda with a fabulous flick
of a palatine paw.
Dubious in the distance
the piercing palilalia
of an ambulance
sheering through the city,
sanguiferous, saccadic
on a hill of bones,
scything
as a sickle,
as a scalpel,
as the howling scarlatina
of a dying child.