A man in Deichmann
stands at the counter 
crushing flying saucers
into his mouth. His boots

are ragged as the claws 
that scuttle through Prufrock.
Sherbet is made of atoms,
the shop floor a library

of babble, cheap wallets 
the colour of stolen sit
strategically by the till,
like reincarnated baddies.

He taps his card onto the 
space-age, the wink-light 
blue as a pilot. His new shoes 
nestle in their crackling nest,

in dreams of acceleration.