street crash, wallstreet was just as bad.

you laughed at me. you thought it was funny?

those hounds are immortal! at home, the old chaps joke about

the flying daisylace wax business papers, the suspended sentences,

the eyes/dread meeting perfectly in time to the scene of the crime,

the way my trousers fell perpendicularly to the floor

the hounds, the eyes of men laughing inside a corridor

only the traffic barreling down made it seem like two

herds of buffalo, bison making buffoons of me-

the barreling, tumbling sunset and the women all fussing

and the sound of a dozen car horns echoing in a chambered chorus unison

and now they all laugh at me, at the reform club.

I was one of their own before.

I’d sit down here to explain, my dear,

(how innocent,)

(your cheek, lips!)

but surely you know

that riding cars in London can sever a fatal blow?

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry


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