take care not to step
on the cracks
in the pavement. Am disturbed by raucous music
emanating from a car with the top down,
one of those
sort of cars.
Meet, for the first time, an eight week old baby boy
who has more hair than Wayne Rooney
and, perhaps more pertinently,
more hair than his father.
Have lunch in a café owned by a young man
who appears to run it as a front
for his main business – selling bootleg DVDs
(perhaps best not to mention its name) but the food is good.
Take a deep breath
before looking sideways
to see my profile
reflected in a shop window.
Consider that men above a certain age
should not be allowed into the city
wearing shorts, particularly if also wearing
open-toed sandals with black socks.
Think better of making any mention
of women above a certain age.
Travel back on what used to be called the Free Bus
but is now called the City Bus
because it charges fifty pence per journey;
wonder how much it cost them to re-label
all the buses, all the posters, all the signs.
Visit my doctor who,
as I am leaving his surgery,
tells me to look after myself.
Walk down the street which, not so long ago,
housed the bomb factory;
suppose that growing up in Belfast
inures me to the abnormality
of a bomb factory in the vicinity.