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,
(your cheek, lips!)
but surely you know
that riding cars in London can sever a fatal blow?
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry