you interrupt my brain sweetheart

When my mother rings on Sundays
and asks what my life is like,
I tell her we live in clattering cafes,
bay windowed sweetshops
jittering with glass boxes of spogs and tom pips
which seem to say
'you interrupt my brain sweetheart'

But I say, its not hearts
you find on pavements here;
people keep them wrapped
in case of the muggers
who spleen split you on the tube.
Its two pigeon halves
curled like hands cupping water,
its small skull popped
like a seed pod on the pavement.

There are no boat lakes here,
but jam jars of food colouring
that we finger tip broach out across
in bottle caps.
We have plans to dock at
each shell eaved bridge before May.

The cakes, I make mother,
are polenta and poppy seed,
they make tongues taste like love.
I keep them in a casserole dish
greased by a dreadlock.