Behold! The agony of love,
Hidden through receipts
In the leather folds of
Pocketed wallets, and
Phantom habits exposed
In ordinary scenes,
Perhaps
On the beachside street
Where
The wind took lead
And all bare witness
To blossoms in Spring.
Do I let the praying man wither?
His eyes so eager in
A holy begging manner.
Strapped
To the streets, afraid
To dare ask the pretend
Upper class for
A passing favour. On and on
He gives his lecture: ‘Behold!
The agony of woe, hold
Her from toe to toe, and
Let her know. Let her
Know’. A lesson
As hollow as his cheeks for
He knows not love, but
Alas he tells truth
Of life perhaps.
Behold! The agony of life,
Begging me to ponder:
‘Do I waver?’
and ‘Do I waver?’
In the face of love.
Do I seek equity
From up above? Or
Shall I trudge ever on
With my naive heart, and
Veteran laugh? Oh,
Shall I linger?
No! For
Life and love
Lay dormant
At
The edge of every smile
And in the canyons
Between stale fingers
Where lovers
Once rest, or perhaps
In the words
That come knocking
When we fail to see the door
Momentarily ahead.
A door hidden on every street,
Packed away beside
The royal garden gate, guarding
The statue of Victoria Royal.
(That statue. That statue.)
She gathers gazing looks,
And men stumble upon her
Shouting profanities, and
Lurking behind her
Great shadow.
To us, she is a mere
Conversation
On our walk home from
The old Gladstone, where
You plead me
To think, and
On I sink,
And on I sink.
(And on, and on.)
And on I waver, and on
I waver; but the
Face is anew, and we
Trudge forward -
Ever braver.
