In the 'synthetic cream' bakery,
a squat man chats to his
thin-limbed son.
The boy has an empty orange bag
slung across his chest.
"How was the paper round?"
'Hot," the boy says.
His bulky winter coat was bought
for dark March starts.
Together, they choose a gypsy tart
and tiger bread
and then head off,
side by side,
down Watling Street,
topped by a clear blue sky
and warmed by the morning sun.
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