FISHING WITH SWEET BABY JAMES

[Peter Christopher James Keane]

 

 

 

Rays of autumnal sun

Splash gold

On the underbelly of the morning’s

First jet

 

A dead starling ushers in

Approaching vehicles

Wing saluting

In their wake

 

Armco walled corridors

Arteries clogged with corpuscled cars

Lub dubbing journeys

Slowing, stopping

Slowing, stopping

 

Bitumened fingers

Reach into the city

Surrounding  grassed, green

Treed islands

 

Shouldering its way

A bus pushes through

The sluggish cavalcade

Faces in windows

Watching, waiting

 

Traffic crawls past

A blurry-eyed army

Scurrying to work

To bring the city to life

Eight hours of periodic detention

 

The cars’ CD player

Rains fire from Heaven

And in my mind

I’m fishing with

Sweet Baby James