Beckenham Place Park with Harry the dog March 2020

Manners go last, the
lycra skin that paints
a jogger’s bum, bare
cover for the chaos
of her arse. She blunders
past asweat, breathes
as if her life were
near its end. As it
may be, all she knows.
The dog, who knows that
all’s not right, casts me
checking looks. I swap
the time of day with
others walking lines
that tell us panic
from complacency,
do the rituals. And
later, at the wheel,
wonder which way’s home.