Kensington Park Road
Holding a little parcel of milk in my hand I walk to work
under the cream of the sky that usually covers this place,
muffling everything like a layer of fat.
The milk is cool in my hand and held out
it becomes a talisman
against the drunks who rush at me
shouting Help the Homeless Luv,
like two clowns in a reckless ballet,
against the German skinhead boys
who will not part their ranks enough to let me through
so I'm forced to cross in front of and around them.
The end boy shouts a stream of deutsch words
over shoulder as I pass
and I imagine that cow is one of them,
floating over me: guttural and ghost white.
I mean it's a matter of logic to call me that,
since I am the bearer of milk,
its glad tidings gently sitting on the pillow of my palm
to ward off demons,
moving in procession past the mother jogging behind a stroller,
past the running businessman in his pinstriped suit,
past the women in saris at the bus stop,
past the private park that says No Entry,
past the pub and temple,
past a hint of barbed wire
that turns into a crown of thorns whenever it curves even slightly.
The blessing of milk: semi-skimmed.
Typical Values.
Have mercy on us.
Fat
Pray for us.
Protein
Have mercy on us.
Carbohydrates
Pray for us.
Energy
Grant us peace.
|