Empty streets on the edge of town, old industrial architecture
reborn, rebranded, dancing with the ghosts of industry.
Trucks reverse to kiss the lips of loading docks, disgorging
heavy metal, blacktop inset with rails, torn strips of hazard tape
flap in gentle breezes like pony club rosettes tied to galvanised
crowd control barriers stacked against factory walls, red brick,
precision engineered, catching the first rays of the sun.
Heavy bread, real scrambled egg, crisp strips of salty bacon,
glistening in steaming trays, juices, fruits & tiny cakes.
The Angels of catering greet us, smile in languages, delivering us
from chocolate temptation in t-shirts, jeans & last night’s hair,
more fabulous than catwalk models, build cairns from salt, pepper,
ketchup & tulips to remind us others passed this way before.