Tony, curry king of Crawley, makes a discrete rustle unpacking his italicised meal.
Like a lazy traitor, the cover, now removed, provides an inviting field.
A red-eyed seagull welcomes the spiced whiff with symphonic hoots of glee and warning.
Too late, King Tony tries to shut the bombastic gate.
His meal has bolted. But this everyday emperor smiles benignly.

An eclectic tribe gathers.
Like a clattering necklace they have come together 
Not as a purposeful line of defeated. 
Instead they want to rejoice.

He wraps up a viscous bloom of othering in cheap crinkly film from the local supermarket. Offering it to a supine population that dozes gentle in a bed of silence. 
A hesitating phoenix is boiled slowly to its own death
whilst browsing John Lewis catalogues and football scores online. 
Remove from basket. 

Neatly folded. All just order. And then the plan fails. Some saboteur hunts me down and I lay sprawling on the cold muddy earth. Why, that was my own mud that just tripped me up.

God creates coffee cups and music 
and creates the bubble of laughter escaping that woman's throat. 
Reach out with extended fingertips and look.