Red china table
stood in the sunshine
with rusty stubby leggies,
as if trying to escape the living room.
It couldn't manouver itself
to rest on the balcony in Hackney.
Seeds growing
to reach the washing line
and it's clingy stringy peggies,
as if trying to form netting for the birds.
They couldn't pull the weight of the mud pots
to swing upon the hamoc in Hackney.
Bricks with windows
look over at me
across depressed tiles and dead grass.
A black dog scratches the gate
for his granny to answer and feed.
One person becomes the next
in a single turning
of a corner in Hackney.
