Beyond the iron-spiked building
The sun spread his crimson wares
In the eye of the sky a broken moon
Pales into clichéd insignificance.
But the man in sun-cap
Has other things in mind-
Not the street vendor sun
Nor the cliched pale moon.
He has put on the sun-cap
With that kind of a sun-cap
One does not fail to notice
Dark computer girls in red shirts
Gliding in the park space
In syncopated music