stood idle in the doorway of his shop
the dark winter rain glossed harrow road
with here and there a shadow hurrying
yet those few people crowd the street with mood
that makes the rain fall slower than it should
where falls on forms or shapes into the night
the brief, imagined outlines of our hopes
it cannot be that simple breezes frame
those fearful crowds who spit
icy splinters into the traffic beam
or if he sees a customer, and nods
at blurs of black, pushed by occult street gods
along the crowded pavement’s gleamy slate
or never will close up and go indoors
just leave the phantom mob to have the street
with all its empty promises and broken lives
light nudging feebly out, dark flooding in
he is as drowned as one long lost at sea
and after he is gone, his form will stand
still in the doorway of his dust greyed shop
then customers will finally come by
for only then will he have
what they need
London 2011