Window Shopping

There’s a second man: he knows the gait

and the frown and the sinister side-glance;

and maybe he’s wiser, cos he isn’t real,

doesn’t fear, doesn’t bother with

checking himself every step of the way:

he’ll be there anyway.

You can claim he’s the victim,

suggest he’s the fingertips

dreading the terrible boot

on the ledge of the twenty-fifth floor;

but it’s myth – pure concoction.

The whoops and halloos you can certainly hear

aren’t from there; they’re reflected like he is,

they spurt from the snouts of pursuers galore.

So let’s pity the first man:

he’s spluttering HELP ME!! and trying to run

from the Roadrunner boulder descending at speed.

He smashes the second man, breaking his fist,

and looks at the new men dispersed on the floor.