Finsbury Park

We sit in the alternate sun and cloud under a tree in Finsbury Park as August brings us a chilled breeze.  Brunch is curtailed by a loss of appetite but look around, look around, and appetite is the tracks, and the train, and the fuel that this place itself is built on, powered by; appetite, and: resisting that appetite.  I lend ‘Don’t Look Back’, read some Auden and we recall my supremely awkward greeting, my lips on a breastbone and a table full of mouths now slightly agape.

“How are you?” I ask.  “How are you?” I repeat, as if the answer is what the night hinges on.  I take an entire bottle of chilli sauce relish from the chicken shop and hug it close to me.

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