There is nothing slow in the busyness.
The strike of your shoe marks the pace.
Breath in the shoulders,
    Never quite reaching the depths.
Scurrying crisp packets
          punctuate the tarmac with red
                  and blue.
Their chaotic dance goes unnoticed by
      the busy feet.
A corner turned.
   Quieter here.
Gone are the shops and the chatter of
                the oppressive hive.
Bumbling along.
Clothes feel wrong.
They don’t fit your mood,
                      your reason.
A tie is loosened.
The familiar scent of curry
       smell bloody good at number 27.
Key turns.
Leather foot coffins unlaced and
                          kicked off.
Toes wriggle
        Eyes close.
                 Bag drops.
                           Slow.

© Sarah Hunter