Slick

Slick

On a rain‑kissed Monday morning, the city’s streets
turn a glossy, mirror‑black, a slick of petrol‑spilled gleam,
where lorries sigh and double‑decker buses glide,
their tyres humming a low‑tone jazz on the wet asphalt.

The pavement, slick as a freshly‑polished dance floor,
reflects the neon signs of the corner café –
a cup of steaming tea, a scone with clotted cream,
the smell of buttered toast drifting on the breeze.

A cyclist in a bright yellow jersey cuts through,
her spokes whispering against the slick,
while a street‑artist, chalk in hand, sketches a fleeting mural,
its lines smudging softly as the drizzle adds its own brush‑stroke.

Even the Thames, usually sombre, catches a slick of sunrise,
a ribbon of liquid gold that slides beneath Waterloo Bridge,
where commuters pause, umbrellas tucked, to watch the water’s quiet shimmer – a momentary pause in the relentless rush of the day.

In the office, the boss’s smile is just as slick,
polished promises sliding over spreadsheets,
yet the tea‑room gossip flows smoother than any oil,
ladies and gentlemen trading quips over custard creams.

And when night falls, the city’s lights become a slick tapestry,
streets slick with reflection,
taxis gliding like silver fish,
the Underground’s rumble a subdued bass line beneath our feet.

So here’s to the slick – the thin film that binds
the ordinary to the extraordinary,
a British‑spun sheen on life’s everyday canvas,
reminding us that even in the dampest of days,
there’s a gleam worth stepping into.