Tuesday, December 17, 2013


I took the underground
to Finsbury Park.
It was there I met
a girl who was dark

in a noonday pub,
and not by design,
on a stool at the bar,
drinking white wine.

A sunny-smile broke-out.
She then gave her name,
and it passed my mind
she was on the game.

Ah seemed to sing
the every word
of this young and sweet
seated blackbird.

And then came in
some John or Joe
whom the blackbird
appeared to know.

She now turned into
a hissing black cat
who'd swallowed the bird
where she had sat.

Was the guy her pimp?
Find I do not know.
Her husband, perhaps,
but time it was to go

way back to Victoria
with its own location
of city sparrows-and-starlings
sat above the population.

He is her Rock Hudson.
She is his Doris Day.
And he is a Hudson
who is not gay.

It was telephone talk
led to pillow talk.
Moonlight inbetween,
on the boardwalk.

It was telephone talk
and morning mail,
evening stars,
shadows of ships asail.

Yes he is her Rock
and she his bright Day.
In the nighttime
together they lay.
Roll her over Rock,
see her light the way !

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