I hang on the wall
exposed and flagrant,
listening to the echo
of culture vultures’
feet.

Some stroll quickly
by but have a sneaky
look:
art in an instant.

Others linger with
nervous coughs;
office girls giggle
and wiggle by
on precarious
shoes that clatter.

Monday to Friday lunchtime
lovers meet.
‘…and that’s disgusting,’
she says,
‘why can’t we ever meet
by the Pre-Raphaelites?’

Bill Allen lives in West London and writes in retirement. Worldly wise, a wicked sense of humour, he often observes the darker aspects of life as well as the curiously funny. Likes old films, modern plays, wine mixed with a pinch of conversation. Bill has published a few poems and short stories.