Sometimes in the afternoon

Sometimes in the afternoon

When my head begins to nod

The outside world impregnates

The solitude of an empty brain with wildlife

Without any need for recreational drugs

Or dehydration

Inappropriate imaginings can

Occasionally

Invalidate the serenity of quiet time

I fall into an altered state of consciousness

To gaze out from Parliament Hill fields

Across the low rise of old London

To the modern collective

Of the new City

Where cucumbers grow

Alongside cheesegraters

St Pauls is dwarfed by the hustle

Of new money

Teenagers wearing braces make a fortune

Before they have learned to shave

The city is still a place full

Of pale males.

It is easy to believe I am there

But for the lack of a cold north wind

To blow the cobwebs out of the corners

Of my reminiscence

There is a smell on Whitechapel Road

Chillies and Choi

Bengali cooking

Chicken shops and Nando’s

New leather from the back of a lorry

People flow with purpose

Always maintaining separation

Individual force fields

Keeping their distance

A river of busy souls.

Lovers walk through the park

Holding hands

Hoping to find that special seat from the movies

And all the while my head nods

The cheesy bulldog on the parcel shelf of dad’s old car

If my eyes continue to roll

They will bounce out across the floor

The lovers would never notice

Somewhere in among the glut

Of forgotten faces

There are people I remember

All my life they have been at the margins

Nodding acquaintances

With walk-on parts

A bit like having a bank manager

In a bedroom closet

Only stepping out when he is needed

A person has to be psychopathic

To believe in Schrodinger

What are they all doing now

As the television infiltrates

With a few lines from Breaking Bad

Pulling me back to the softness of the sofa

And quiet time

Before the madness of real life

When the truth of things

Fills in the gaps between what was

And what is,

Without her

There is only imagination,

What would I do without that?