Clouds move as buffalo in a racing herd
In between we spy fleeting glimpses of the bright blue plane
Whilst neurotic aerials rock violently
Back and forth
Just one knock away from picking up the razor
and slicing deep into their veins.
Cheetah-like bin men sprint, chasing down their prey
some triumphantly ensnaring it in their grasps
Their dispondent, portly colleagues can do little but look on
feeling more than a pang of jealousy
and the soft burden of their own impotence
A tarpauline sheet,
bodyguard and protector of a rattan furniture suite.
has escaped the miseries of its 9-5
dancing a floaty ballet down the road
in celebration of its unexpected, early retirement
All this while we gaze upon the dance
from the small fortresses we call home
Through smeary windows we watch and wait.
Life paused.
Too afraid to join in with moves of our own.
Poetry for Dullards 