The Best Falafel

We woke at ten and left the flat at three
when the world was already up and dancing,

where the harbour-side was lined with stalls
and sellers and their crafts rich in their charisma,

and a man noodled a long stringed sitar amongst
them all in slow and stylish tasteful tempo

who bowed his head for every pound or pence
that dropped into his upturned flat cap,

and the falafel van was alive at the end, surrounded
with the lurching late lunchers half glazed in hunger

and we joined them, fetched ourselves the best seller,
sat ourselves tight between the horn cleats,

cradled close the oven pittas and warmed our thighs
with coffee in corrugated cardboard, waking slowly

to the sound of ravenous seagulls circling ahead
and meandering traffic creeping into the city,

to the stir of the water beneath our feet
that foamed and frothed and folded upon itself.

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