Bustling bodies reach under, over bright brass taps.
Rare as good house wine, in dim nooks avoid
Hustling Chinese selling ‘Fi-pound’ movies.
There, ensconced you read, unaware of sharp

Glares from hostile competition; content.
You and your cursory eyes, green/blue stars
Bared in the pit of Camden. Me, subtle
Skew on a desperate bid for favour.

Lewd remarks just wouldn’t cut the mustard.
My slick patina shrivels in your glow.
Few see beyond the red nails and net;
By pity or contrition you see deep.

Soul watcher, in a dim corner. You read
Whole paragraphs of me, and aren’t repelled.

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