Sunny day

Four times a week, she says,
a little nasal. I try to do the
maths but I’m distracted by
her round red-purple
clog-toes blossoming like
tulips. Her smoothie matches
her psyche, or do I mean her
footwear? –

It was the oddness that
was compelling, I offer
by way of explanation –

Our voices disappearing
half-drifts hiding inside
traffic’s fog-breath,
toes rested on
London sad grass

pretending to be
astroturf.