poems by owen lucas

The bus judders slowly past
the butchers, the green, lights
of the ice rink, ranked cabs.
From the handbagged girls
at the back, the magazine tweak
of perfumed nostril, and two
lily-palmed Cambridge wides
with topman hoods and hi-tec,
whiff of lynx and marijuana.
In town, all change, bloke
in a flat cap, man-scarfed
with a daddy's girl in rainbows.
Jesus College type rednosed
and hilariously rasta-hatted,
fingers simpering hold a rolled
copy of the New Statesman.
Bobby pins in her auburn topper,
an Arbury mother coddles
her suit and booted child
whose tiny arms scatter
a hoard of chocolate money.
Through the window you see
evening walkers flutter inside
shops, like startled moths.