The motorcade carries on the wind
Accompanying the sparrow’s conversation and the people’s idle chirping
I am in an oasis of calm grass
Trees in their various states of undress
I see parts of the real world speckled with Sky dishes,

But whilst I’m here it can’t touch me.

The park shuts at five.

An explosion of pigeon rings out as someone tries to alarm them
Into abandoning their rations of bread

I am in a place known for many different things
a stepping stone from a to b
A masseur for the mind, or a safe haunt at night
For the narcotically inclined