Harlequin

The harlequin of New Cross comes
singing reggae walking past kebab shops
with a tyre around his waist
with a traffic cone his crown
falling into every pothole on fire
doused in hotsauce and ginger.
The ladies beam and pelt him with gold
from their wrists, scrabble at his thighs
tear off their burkhas and hijabs
and run home to bathe in beer.
He's drinking malt with the Ghanaians
covered in mayonnaise and flour.
They clap his shoulders, offer fishes,
bake his eyes red and roll him
battered out into the street
where he feasts on beef brisket and shrimp.

Children dance all around him,
swing from his red and green tailcoat,
prank on his chicken ribs, his bells.
He grins like a piano, plucks goats' eyes
from behind their ears. When their mothers
come wagging tongues like steaks in scolding
he waltzes them across the drains
crooning to them like the Caribbean sea,
leaves them breathless, bosoms bowling,
holding baskets of mangoes and figs.
Twilight, he quits the drunken town.
Cartwheeling, throwing off his clothes,
his crown, he gives a glorious cockadoodledoo
and leaps like a lion into the sky.