Cowgirls in Oxford Circus

This is the part where a Dutch girl
loses herself in smoke only
to find herself again in the
letterbox eyes of an Iranian
woman at the back of a bus
heading two stops away from
where she really ought to be

This the part where a librarian
with a pierced nose and fifty percent
shaved head chases a rude boy down the
poetry aisle after he slobbers
milkshake all over Ginsberg’s
Cosmpolitan Greetings
he forgets to note its location
as he runs runs runs to

The part where a Portuguese filmmaker
pretends he’s asking for directions
and slides a phone number into the
Dutch girl’s pocket as she tries to
emphasize she’s new here and she
has no idea where she’s going

This is the part where a Chelsea
local vomits her muffin into
a Starbucks loo whilst her friend scoops
whipped cream like she’s
shovelling yellow snow

This is the part where trench coat men
with funnelled eyes plot and plan their
way through the Gherkin like worms in
and out of rotting fruit

And this is the part where teenagers
from Texas rodeo their way
through Top Shop past smart trousered women
with clipboards who tally up wide
eyes and stuck out hipbones.

These are parts
that spin so fast
and do not stop unless you catch them
with a piece of paper and a
ball-point pen and even then

they might disappear, like that man you saw
crying on a Camden bridge.