RG (June 1,1965 / Cheltenham, U.K.)

His Last Trip To London

1

Winter sunshine dazzled the old man
with graffiti in his eyes as on
the window of the train,
scribbling the connection through
the cell debris. An urchin stared -
a writer! - and on impulse
he handed it his pen, and
away it ran delighted down
the bucking aisle. He felt
he'd rejoined the human race.

But when he stepped Underground
the chilly light convinced him:
another stroke, and shoving crowds
would watch him die.

2

He visited one more time
the library of poets,
jostling periodicals
and felt weary.

On Thameslink, northbound
a passenger gripped him
with the rivet stare of Serbs.
From Cricklewood to Edgware
he studied the long strata of the sunset:
apricot, liquid green
and purplish grey. One of the best.
And he rallied, and was glad
that he'd made the expedition
and would soon be home.
The next day
his head hurt.

by Richard George

Comments (2)

I'm with you on this, David. Hate its reality, love its poetry.
I love this one, Richard. Great poem.