There are flying pigs in this city
In the predawn glistened from the Square’s lighting
there is a row of strawberry red bicycles.
They are restrained in case of escape.
On the Square a man with without home or thought
sits protective next to his feral bicycle
which is full of rust and yesterdays that
it does not dream of escape
Further up the hill there is
another row of bicycles, also restrained
but these sit in darkness and Tardis blue
and they dream of time and Time and
their spokes whirriling lazily in the clouds
knowing they will never be alone because
there are flying pigs in this city