eight to eight —

I’ll be late

for lunch at one

or was it two,

I cannot find

a taxi stand,

the road’s too

rutted for

the bus,

I trace the lane

the farmhouse of

for winged shoes

& find but one,

I’ll have to bike it,

sure it’s flat,

so I’ll hike it —

& the road, you know,

is sticks and stones,

& the wind’s up

running thru my hair,

& there’s a tatterman

behind me —

I’d thought to

see him up ahead,

he is a friend

& leads me on,

my lace is loose

& I’m undone,

& fair thereon

a penny in

the fountain is,

I sit, I’ll wait

& try the ‘phone,

it’s at the house —

( expectorate  –

when no-one’s near me )

I need a drink,

the air is dry,

there’s all that dust,

the fountain’s off,

adjust the time —

he’s here again,

I’ll ask him –

he shakes his sack,

& all I have

is chapstick