Avenue

 Here is an alphabet of shops, selling 
Warm-paged books, mousetails of espresso, drinks
shimmering with ice and Orange slices.
Here the people dress like cartoon people:
Blue culottes, white t-shirts, red shoes. Kids grab stumps
Of chalk and create a wobbling zoo on the tarmac.

This is my chequered flag for long weekdays,
A checkpoint once the last commute has crawled
into the station. Fridays, Saturdays
and Sundays melt like sun rays into glass.
The black cat at the green shop greets me, curls
Into the navel-gazing tulips, naps.

Maybe here I am a cartoon person,
A shimmering alphabet of ideas.
To the clerk inside the flower shop, I
Buy my peonies, I write my poems,
Just as real as any other stranger
Making loops around the neighbourhood.