My body clock is set to Vienna day trips,
epic walks atop the white cliffs of Dover,
and avoiding sun among Roman forums –
only here it’s flexed bare chests,
belly buttons piercing snail trail hair,
and tattoos that sweat through skin;
discount booze hangs on booming breath
as a headache-inducing marijuana stench
crawls up my nostrils from inside pockets
like a chef advertising leftovers
to the streets via an air vent.
I’m craving cartoon fantasy:
empathy in the world, even for humidity.
As they deplore a break in proceedings,
I pray the storms bring some fresh relief.
Lewis Wyn Davies 