There is a barber shop in Richmond,
ten-dollar hair cut inclusive of a stubby.
Lift your elbow carefully, if it’s a short
back and sides. The cheap pharmacy
is over the road, a few doors down.
The Viking in the tattoo shop has
an anchor through a heart on his shaved head.
Don’t get, Andy can tell you all about it,
the mushrooms at the trendy hotel,
where the chef can only count to three.
The renovated pub had glass walled toilets,
the diners stared in not very comfortable,
since rectified by an architect not channeling Dali.
My conservative workmate John was always
buckled up at the neck and wrists, to hide
the moving exhibition on the rest of his body.
One Hundred and Sixty Thousand Dollars
of coloured ink graffiti gunning,
had him presented at shows all round the globe.
Unknown to us, even then, when it happened,
so queathed in modern art, he merged in full view
of the Sports Bar’s gasping patrons
in Fibonacci reflexion at the designer urinal.
James Walton Poetry 