Splashed across the roundabout,
Happy 18th Birthday, Sixpack.
Prosser mutters to me,
Wouldn’t have seen that fifty years ago.
I walk on down, past thumbs prodding Smartphones,
scrolling a universe of enlightenment.
The man from the spice shop, robed,
almost salaams, hovers near obsequy,
yet seems a pleasant man. Dolly, in Londis,
calls me and the morning’s seventy customers,
My darling. Jock wheels his dustcart past,
wants to know about the new goalkeeper.
Halfway between St. Mary’s and the Taj Mahal,
two dogs fight, Rhyssie the postman
tells me of a boatload of immigrants
smuggled in last night at Fishguard.
Soon a young lady (‘A’ levels, it may be,
in English, art and sociology)
shouts Piss off, you pratt.
An elderly woman stumbles near the busy road.
There is concern.
Two police officers patrol
and a traffic warden pinches a man
who’s driven from Cardiff with a Georgian chair.
John’s Antiques, Cuts & Curls, Betfair, Conti’s Café.
This is your territory, Sixpack. Have fun.