stomps like a despot across the pebble beach, can of Export
nuzzling his lips, this bunting-festooned August afternoon
sandwiched between three nights and days of constant rain;
then heads off the prom to a mid-terrace mid-Victorian flat,the cracked facade of which he monkeys up like Spider-Man.
That's the very point in time when the four of us pass by,
more nonplussed than alarmed by his bellowing vaguely
over our heads, and the bang behind us due to him flailing
down from the second floor, only just missing the railing.
He chortles like it's perfectly natural, which we can't beliewhen every one of us reboots the locomotion of his falling.