Two for three pound from the Duracell man;
grey, weathered and running on borrowed time,
sells a packet from his suitcase; living proof.
Musty smell of fabric boxed up for too long,
waiting for its glorious Sunday release.
Teddies, clothes for tots and handbags,
watches lined up in rows of boxes,
crates and crates of pants and soxes.
A mountain of shoes piled high
like a lost shoe emporium.
Lookie, lookie, look; three a tenner
for souvenir London bric-a-brac.
Sunglasses and pocket watches
and racks of cheap schoolgirl overcoats,
Christmas jumpers and gold lamé leggings.
Barbecue chicken wafts across the
‘everything for fifty pee’ opposite
sparkly mobile phone cases in pink, white
and blue sky blue with slippers and crocs
sharing the same spot side by side.
Turn around and see the Gerkin
poking its obscene nose into London’s skyline.
‘Cockney Touch Clothing’ that sells only saris.
Then the Tikka…
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