James Walton #28 And so it goes

And so it goes

There is a barber shop in Richmond,

ten dollar hair cut plus a stubby.

Lift your elbow carefully, if it’s a short

back and sides. The cheap pharmacy

is over the road, a few doors down.

The Viking in the tattoo shop has

an anchor through a heart on his shaved head.

Don’t get, Andy can tell you all about it,

the mushrooms at the trendy hotel,

you can count them on less than one hand.

The renovated pub had glass walled toilets,

the diners stared in not very comfortable,

since rectified by an architect not channelling Dali.

My conservative workmate John was always

buckled up at the neck and wrists, to hide

the moving exhibition on the rest of his body.

One Hundred and Sixty Thousand Dollars

of coloured ink graffiti gunning,

had him presented at shows all round the globe.

Unknown to us, even then, when it happened,

so queathed in modern art, he vanished in full view

of the Sports Bar’s gasping patrons

in artistic shades at the designer urinal.