An inaudible bell chimes
And we shoal of mammals clamour calmly,
Breaking onto open air,
All brief smiles
And thank-yous to
Held doors as we
Discretely sniff the wind.
Strolling, I'm overtaken by a door-mate;
He clutches his pocket, stumbling,
A man not designed for running
(Or the growing of beards)
I crane my neck, see
(As he does not)
That he's being rescued by
A phalanx of cyclists,
A logjam of stubborn frames.
He runs like a duckling,
Broad bottom swaying,
Knees splayed,
Praying and gasping
To whoever governs
The Number 8
When I next look,
He's gulping quietly, watching,
Locked in a trance of summoning
Come on, come on,
Supplicant briefcase clutched.
He does not nod,
We do not lock gazes,
His trained on the saviour behemoth,
But I smile anyway.
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