A muffled “Gong” as Big Ben strikes
a singular, dull, one.
It’s notched and numeraled face
appears to be the same size as
the pallid mid-day sun,
that looks as if it’s sucking in
the thinning bank of haze.
Just jilted by the lithe,
laughing lass from Leicester yesterday;
a half-day hitching on the motorway,
lorries and coaches blowing passed, fast.
Driving our sad traveler to concede
that his strategy (of thumbing it from
the vortex of the A1/M1 roundabout)
to flag a ride to Stonehenge,
or to Nottingham, or anywhere but here,
has proved wanting.
So, with backpack strapped, the long hike back
to hushed Hyde Park to finally rest
and doze and dream…
...to caress, then lean.
To become one loving flank
on the wet-leaved, green ground of the forest…
Her smooth calves quivered,
as she skipped away;
taut limbs glistening
in the full moon’s light,
as miniskirt and clogs
receded into the trees.
Elusive objects of desire, they say,
were once called “Birds,”
Copyright © mark goldstein | Year Posted 2020
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