Friday, January 12, 2018

Rush hour in London

To walk the sidewalks
of London at morning rush hour
is to watch power walkers rushing
from bus stops and tube stations;
men with backpacks on scooters
one-footing their way like children
going to school; the peleton of cyclists
riding as hard and fast as the Tour de France,
or given the traffic, the Tour de Chance;
the Wellington Guards being inspected
by officers dressed in black uniforms, who
walk up and down rows of khaki-clad men,
faces fixed and impassive;
the invisible clouds yet pungent clouds
of automobile and truck exhaust (avoidance
of inhaling not possible, so some walkers
and cyclists wear bandanas like bandits);
construction crews already at work rebuilding
and tearing down and rebuilding this city
of mechanical cranes, the one constant
in the life of London; and the working class
father holding the hand of his nine-year-old
son, a boy dressed in his school uniform
of blue coat and blue tie and blue slacks,
the two laughing and smiling, eagerness
and anticipation on both faces.

Photograph by David Dibert via Unsplash. Used with permission.


Victor S E Moubarak said...

Yep ... I recognise London from the opening lines of this poem. Thanx.

God bless.

Martha Jane Orlando said...

How I love this poem, Glynn! I am particularly struck by the middle class dad and son having so much hope and eagerness. I feel that is happening in our own country at this moment.