Taxis and tourists, ice cream girl
waiting to cross with flowers in hand, crying,
while Daddy chases daughter in pink cap exploring, learning
Islington’s ways; working class guys and foreigners
walk with Irishmen, Arabs, and Africans; the quiet American
smoking his pipe at a table on the pub sidewalk –
first a Guinness then a Strongbow while he watches and waits – for what?
The Ginger Beauty? The Ice Cream Girl? He exchanges
knowing looks with the daddy, baby daughter imprisoned
again in her pram; buses of red roaring down
Seven Sisters Road where Blackstock turns
downhill. Just sit and watch and London
passes for the price of a pint or two at the Twelve Pins.