Crowds stand beneath the London Eye,
floodlit, looking apocalyptic.
Overhead a helicopter blasts POETRY in military bursts
through the spokes of the wheel and onto the people below.
The people grab at the POETRY.
Children wrestle for the POETRY.
Mad rugby scrums and scrambles and skirmishes for POETRY.
Tourists and families and lovers and teenagers and everyone runs
laughing, fiercely, cheering, victoriously grasping or desperately flailing
Friends pose for pictures with their haul,
Climbing trees, scouring the ground, searching for more, more POETRY.
They carry piles of it, like gold bars.
Two bashful young boys approach me
Do you have a poem?
Do you want one?
They offer a spread toward me, like street magicians.
I try to make a game of it but they’re businesslike,
just sharing the load.
The helicopter withdraws, circling grateful citizens whooping and waving.
One teenager, hands full of splayed poems in the evening heat, struts across the grass
It’s fannin’ time, innit!
This is genius.