Whose Master Is Sawicki
There …
It was
dark. England,
set down, and stretched out
for miles,
and days
without end
Far afield her quondam spirit,
But forever sprawling
Beneath
Discouraging clouds
with unbroken tears
that washed out …
cricket games
and pigeon stool,
bleeding into drinking …
Watered-down whiskey
from pubs
following the concrete pavements
Victorian structures,
and verdant meadows
that sleep …
to the lullabies
of Jackdaws and humming engines
I often wonder,
how one can speak
without both lips in motion;
Are they half ventriloquists?
I need no retort;
I’m just playing George on this one
When Auntie returned …,
from London, with her brain
swimming in high tide,
they were quick to blame
the clock,
but Manchester is the author
of this charlatan
The tale is that
those who trust
Big Ben for time
Will in fact misplace their minds
How true a case is he?
Old England will agree
he is special
Rum will whisper tall stories,
same with Cognac and Vodka,
but aren’t there days
when we are restrained
What is Sawicki,
but a train, blowing wet whistle?
How straight can one walk
with neurons bathing in ethanol?
In days past, dictionaries were scarfed-up;
men were …
Men were quick and questioning
Where is evolution;
like monkeys we mimic?
John Fletcher
I know, and C. Marlowe
Much of William Blake and Carew
I recalled Arnold,
the Brownings, and Dowson,
So much for Killigrew,
old Abercrombie, Crowley,
and young Liam Wilkinson
Who in God’s name is Sawicki,
Whose “master” is he?
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