London town

Scrubbing nylon brushes  
scratch the backs of dirty streets.  
Outside the shops
with sagged oak beams,  
untold news is gagged with string.  
Rubbish crushed by talking trucks  
reverse away a day of waste,  
underground she groans awake  
on gyroscopic legs.  

Quiet queues that crave Chai Latte,  
commune on phones with robot thumbs.  
Wired heads are sealed by force-fields  
that keep in the morning dead.  
The shelter tells its guests to go,  
slow limbs dress out of place  
and trace the steps they've come to know,  
handed out with backstreet grace.  
 
Styles hang without conclusion,  
collars fold against the old,  
track suits tuck inside cross trainers,  
while winkles pick Italian soles.  
Traffic fills like grain to silos,  
till the volume stems the flow,  
 
Moving faster watched by time,  
tunnels belch the crowds in lines,  
non-stop feet reveal the smart,  
the tough, the cocky stronger harder stuff,  
the map readers, the pigeon feeders,  
the lunch time sitters, the park keep-fitters,  
the slightly mad, the latest fads  
the single parent working dads,  
the bus riders without a seat,  
all proudly rock to London's beat.