You hear the bell, the sun upon your shoulders
like a spilt bag of gold, the street awash
with piss and lager as the hated soldiers
of the sewers dodge the morning's shrapnel,
shrewd in their retreats beneath the lash
of a self-righteous eye, although a capful
of coins collected on the narrow street
could never alter them from being what
they are: roof rats escaping with the wheat
of an old flour mill, while a fly-clad baker
hangs suspended from beams, as if caught
by Peter at the foothill of the gate.
You hear the bell, and walk towards your maker,
sun on your shoulders, feet upon the grate.
