A man kicks a tyre
Of a meanly-treated cab.
A swirl of blossom
Blush, cascades about him.
I lean on my hand
My tongue, unreasonably,
Dry.

No-one notices.
He does not see the blossom
I do not feel my dry tongue
The trees shake
The traffic roars
And in the distance a radio
Sings in autotune
To someone
Who isn’t listening.