I'd love to help

I'd love to help

At lunch
Bea admires the cornet mouthed muscle men,
the statues sweating significance.

She shock glares seagulls and pigeons,
wonders which would win
while she hums Maria Maria Maria.

Tum tumming she greases her chin
with Bakers Oven best
and swigs flat coke.

She stares at flight path static,
tangles herself in the tessellating trees,
the squirrels sniff her feet and can tell

she has forgotten
the navy trouser suit tapering her in to tunnels,
the island help desk platooned in a tide of carpet tiles.