67 & 72

Halogen bulbs in cherry red shades
hang like paper lanterns above heated trays
at the counter of a Lewisham Way chinese.
The window is plastered with orange menus,
a paddle and a porcelain cat on the sill,
digital photos of oval dishes next to geishas
preening their polythene wigs in vanilla light,
strings of gold in their tiny china hands.
Behind the marbletop, exotic beers glint,
from Turkey, the Caribbean, or the orient.
There is cheap wine and Japanese whisky
in the cobwebs, dressed in paper flowers.
At the register some little cousin sits
in a plaid shirt, smiling into his bowl of soup.
From the stairwell the smell of steam floats
off the noodle vats, and some bigman
coughing and arguing down his phone,
voice muffled as he chows on black bean beef.

The door is wide open, a blue dusk
seeps in with sirens and the speeding cars,
the shouts of early evening drunks,
black thunder as articulated lorries charge
crosstown, the hour gathering a head of steam
behind the motion of their cycling drums.
A thin man in a suit sits by the window,
blowing his head off over and over
taking huge mouthfuls of crispy chilli beef,
wheezing and laughing at his tears
that fall into his mouth, and taste of stew.
Ghosts of cows and chickens scrabble up
into the sky, and a growling night comes down.