Sprinting to work, late like the binmen, I spill
crusts and rinds into a bucket on my doorstep.
A fume of fungus spores lifts from the wastes
and ribbons me - golden strands to stain my neck.
As I wait for a bus in Mare Street I spot
a glass hearse hauled by plumed horses. Silver
handles deck the white, bouquet-topped coffin
stranded in the smog of rush-hour exhausts.
The bronze from my pocket will gift Hackney
Town Hall some fresh adornments: we only have
seven years to spruce our beloved corpse
before the world arrives for the viewing.
(do you notice a theme developing here?)