The Golden Arches of Oxford Street

Friends, couples, families, out in the cold,
Happily frost nipped with hands in gloves, necks in scarves
and bodies in coats.
A busy day in the bitter capital,
Weekday gloom now weekend warmth,
Unjustifiably large bags droop from dragging arms,
Yelling labels, sales and splash outs.

Stomachs are warm but growl for nourishment,
Platform coffee just wasn't enough.
Cafes, restaurants bursting with business,
Everyone but you has a table.
Crowds of likewise desperate souls,
Shuffle inevitably towards a golden glow.
Cold white tiles and a shield wall of cashiers,
Clamouring, squawking and clattering trays.

It's all too easy, too good to be true,
Upstairs, downstairs; nowhere to perch.
Hovering chair vultures perch on every wall,
Gloomy strip lights illuminate a sorry scene:
A long white trough stretches the room,
Just too high stools uncomfortably close.
Grey faces gaze with no recognition,
Elbows creaking chip to mouth, chip to mouth…
Happy chill to cosy oblivion, through a pair of golden arches.