The Saracens Eye

A seat in the window of a cafe off Kings Road,

copy-book handwriting and cognac.

Knightsbridge in the evening.

On a cold stomach, one cannot get drunk!

I’d lingered too long in Piccadilly,

labouring over a pint of beer

& tasteless Christmas cake. 

In Berwick Street, I paid ten pound

for some poker-faced information

from a tape machine of real booty.

The unfurnished life lives

in a convivial dimension,

embroidered in vogue of the day.