The man in front of me is playing rap –
his radio invisible – aloud
without an earphone on. He doesn’t clap
but there’s an elemental beat as proud
as myths of Africa, with lilting rhyme
and lyric playing in and out of tune.
He moves his gold-encircled wrist in time
and plays his curving thumb just like a spoon.

He wears a sunshade round his shaven head,
the brim above a triple-punctured ear.
The sports are open on his lap, unread
as he sit-dances in our atmosphere
commutive, clad in black and dull maroon,
agreeing with a manufactured tune.