Atlas Speck

The sky's a warbling jukebox whose clawed antennae pierce the urban fog with bird -like catcalls.
Watchful eye of heaven to the sleeper.
Arise, arise, ring in the morning rush.
A spritely weekend dawn has yet to peak.
Visual troop of age span on ice, cluster and clan.
Grey haired elders broken nap.
Chalk mark to a plucky age-proof  twilight, where shutters never fall.
Wakeful youth awash with boisterous vim.
Each has its own trademark gadget.
Gadgets pop out of ears.
Footwear on crazy paving.
Splintered death trap for the unsuspecting limb.
Circus vouchers idly skim the curb of every sidewalk.
Litter bin intended target, litter lout shoot to miss.
Supermarket rendez-vous or lonely hearts club link.
Shopping baskets brimming over bumper to bumper.
Static queues crawling inch by inch.
Pavement edge bazaar in full exotica.   Incendiary whiffs of Bombay set the tongue alight.
Market stall maverick with dodgy incense as counterpoint to intrigue.
Highly seasoned Bap on spit.            
Pumpkin seed encrusted, reeks of sesame oil.
Greeting card chatter fueled by fate or chance encounter.
Capers over coffee.
Bogus laughter drowned in roaring traffic’s boom.
Finger licking chocolate Mesdames,  Messieurs. 
Chocolate flake on napkin.
Whipped cream blob an afterthought.
Noisette on the never never tab.
Sunday pulse rates peak and trough to the groove of  eighties Prince a.k.a the Purple One.
Dated backdrop street life for the reveller.
Vortex of a spiralling timeline, giddy with impulse.
Bank holiday high jinks, bonhomie, brouhaha,
Bye-gone era town comes out of coma.
An atlas speck, that yet to be hub.