there was a rhythm i couldn't source,
the heartbeat of an action,
that snaked through a maze
of past-built terraces, jumped
over a stagnant pile of rubbish bags,
past rotten packaging and stubborn
dandelions in the back alley.
the smell of next door weed
was pungent today, at one in the afternoon;
but it was the grey cold that seeped
in between layers, tussled hair strands.
my red nose reflected in the bathroom window
reminded me of christmas crackers i pulled
with my girlfriend and her housemates.
two months on and still so cold. standing
temporary in an excuse of a courtyard,
unbothered about music, about the earphones
i'd absently stashed in my back pocket,
the wind became the accompaniment,
bemoaning february reality, to the beat
of that rhythmic city sound i couldn't find.
and it was profound. even city living:
shitty housing and paying high rents;
performing studiousness to an audience
of over-spilling bins; skips cheering on
hungover students hating saturday afternoons;
sometimes the odd family, a kid on a bike
to remind us not to be so damn insular –
being here and not just living through
nature walks, connecting to the inhuman earth.
it was a back alley with the smell of weed,
watching blue blink between a day's grey misery;
it was being here and being real, finally,
and it was so fucking profound.
09.02.2019
image: daria nepriakhina.
