View of Valleys High Street through a Café Window

Out there, policemen in attention-seeking

fluoro-vests eye up a single mam

pushing a pram, her head down and her face

so much a frown, it’s like she’s trying to mow

the pavement. Brollies bob above each head

like thought balloons, if everyone were thinking,

Fuck me, it’s raining. They’re not thinking that,

these lovers who hold hands at just the height

of shopping bags, or this girl who smokes a fag

and rides a bike past, like a really crap

steam train. A man with a cumulonimbus

beard enters a phone box and I wait

for him to emerge as Superman. He checks

the tray for change, as his hot-water bottle

wags its tail. In this window, our ghosts,

those silly sods, sit at the pavement table,

eating cake from their left hands and getting

soaked. A board outside the travel agent’s

puts a price on the sun. The democratic

rain falls on it, on them, on everyone.