Running with the Wasps

Scraping off the remnants
of a summer’s day, spoiled;
footprints fossilised in wet concrete.
Wasps, bright in their wide-boy,
side-boy stripy jackets go humming past
in pursuit of the next sweet thing
with ankles showing
and bowels glowing
in the wake of a negative reaction
to the curry ice-cream
which seemed such a good idea
on a sweltering summer night
in the pale green footlights
and rust-red remnants
of a balti at the New Delhi café.