it’s lunching,
suited in boardroom sociopathy
By 3pm, its black sartorial
boredom hangs
in downtown coffee bars
The city, at 6, loosens silk ties, casts lustful
stares across crowded pubs
Its throaty, pashmina’d laughs drift
over footlights at 8,
Around 10, it’s sporting fusion-cuisined
energy and scent of MSG
Overtimed road-crew neon reflects
stumbling stillettoes,
come midnight
And at 2am, it’s pyjama-shuffling
its drug-coma’d streets,
mad-haired, in the darkness
But you’ll find it
just before sunup,
reposed against periwinkle sky,
at its naked
best




















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