I can easily have a big whirl of being
with the
surge of crossed
lanes of the stucky
hissing whisk of afternoon tires,
so dogged eternal
Or that reliable combusting rattle
of compressor for the pogoing
shattering jackhammer
always down a street,
down a street
somewhere
And, yes, with
the counterpoint –
the afternoon busy outdoor crimson cloth
new sweet scone,
latte and cinnamon,
wine twinkling
cafes
and the sprinkled little
silky ethereal golden
yellow and green
ribboned
botiques,
so nice, so nice
That, too
I know
Yet were you around
some faintly remembered
summer hour
when the tendrils of fog
were still hovering over the dewy hills
to catch the
furtive
cantering flight
of the shamelessly
white feathered
bald eagle
high gliding
above a sunrising river?
That you now know
will always, always
rise you
from that hard gravity
of your
too brick worn
feetJack Slocomb