Sirens scream past
like and ice cream van
looking for the spark in 
children's eyes 
when he hands them
over a sense of joy 
packaged in a pyramid
of cold, sugary bliss.

Birds carve the skies above
like the butcher artfully,
following lines in the dead animal,
lay in front of him.
It's blood 
a river 
flowing off the wooden workbench
full of etchings 
that falsely portray 
the presence of nature,
yet only reveal the use of a 
cold, 
sharp, metal blade.

A taxi cab,
turns off its glowing sign,
telling the world
it is once again full of purpose 
although the sigh from the 
driver would suggest otherwise.
A life long education
of street names and landmarks 
makes him the closest thing 
to the City,
not the men in suits who sit
in powerful huts
and navigate their post code 
pretending to do good.

A chef wipes his hands after another shift being done.
He spent most of his day
in one spot, one location,
hesitant to break from his role 
whilst 
tomatoes from Cornwall,
truffles from Italy,
cuts of meat from Argentina,
all passed underneath his own very nose.
He would have the world at his
fingertips,
although his feet refused to move
more than 5 meters away,
the occasional pause to
fill his lungs with smoke.
The ingredients in his kitchen
were forever at his mercy
yet they were more well-travelled 
than him.