The Bell

You hear the bell, the sun upon your shoulders like a spilt bag of gold, the street awash with piss and lager as the hated soldiers of the sewers dodge the morning's shrapnel, shrewd in their retreats beneath the lash of a self-righteous eye, although a capful of coins collected on the narrow street could never alter them from being what they are: roof rats escaping with the wheat of an old flour mill, while a fly-clad baker hangs suspended from beams, as if caught by Peter at the foothill of the gate. You hear the bell, and walk towards your maker, sun on your shoulders, feet upon the grate.