Waiting For Rain To End
Black-eyed, musty mange collar, took in
from the pincushion clouds, hit fitfully
from the impending squint of first light,
took the chance to ask about a yellow
umbrella, shifty shelter, but some kind.
Coat creasing impermanent lines sitting
beneath the chilling comfort offered
half-serious, half-wishing never to be,
out of the brown-burgundy London Fog,
awkward posture distorting shadows complex.
Fevered feeling walking up the staircase,
imagination cast most impossible regards
upon you, assured to be most unwelcome;
it was not, cast in cold stone, it was not
exploding as wood sparks to the July air.