The Spitter

With your left index finger
You hooked behind the blue mask
In the Cupid's bow, right under your nose
Pulled it to your chin
And spat
Onto the pavement,
A plankton jellyfish in the sea of gray
Carrying froth, nicotine,
And your DNA.
It was your way to honour
The trodden, parched concrete;
Soiled it, some might say,
But you and I knew you were pouring water
Into the Earth's core.
You were on a mission.
On a murky morning like this
Ancient spirits sent you their behest
Of communing with nature
Of blessing the city
Of a pact of sorts before the shaking of hands.
In fact, it was almost like a dance.
You had measured your steps
With a metronome,
Quick-quick-slowed your way
From the escalator,
Spun a metre-and-a-half away
From a begloved passer-by,
Took out a second to
Take in your reflection
In the empty shop-window,
Then delivered it.
In fact, it was all a masterplan.
You had set your target
With geometrical precision,
Put poor Pythagoras to shame.
Perpendicular to the noontime shadow
Of the trash bin gaping alone;
One degree nineteen minutes
North by north-west from
The pinkish-gray chewing-gum blotch,
With X you marked the spot
For a street star constellation,
Then launched it.
You, unbeknighted hero of our time,
Stood and crowed with pride
For having grounded the sky
And quenched the asphalt athirst
By a single ancient act
Of holy expectoration.
Then, your index finger a hook,
You pulled the mask over your chin,
And picked up your way,
Carrying froth, nicotine,
And your DNA.

Image copyright: Chris Gravett

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