Closed like a sad butterfly

I see the busy city go by

Without cares for the wanderer inside me.

Where can I be?

In the big game

Or the rat race

Saving face

Needing grace

To appeal to the courts

To pay my rates.

There is not so much as the gandering human touch

To develop some rays and pay for the fade

Of what has passed between me and the sobriety

Of the human worker

And yearly tear jerker

Possessed by a passion to resolve

The open casket for pin stripe holes in one.

Be in all and the light won’t fade

In the bedazzled grade of twisted blazers

Running by

Drive bys

And the rooting tooting call of spiralling light

Like a roman candle or a Catherine wheel

For all that coded cosmic general zeal

Of what you saw yesterday but did not report

For the cost of one of your let me downs

Negligees and the sport of quick witty retorts.

Pass me by

Hell of a guy

Call me

I’m heaven sent –

That’s what the text meant.

And I’ll meet you in my black slab

Instead of the sacred codes of those Eastern minicabs

And we’ll not be two for the size of the crew

You carry with you

In those Bag Chags of Charlemagne Court : Old bulky sort

Of the lassoed Slazenger sport

With no room for my brethren

Even though you’re at it again.