This Thursday morning holds the mind entombed in the low hung clouds
Filtered through the grey blue visor into traffic noise and city chatter.
Around about the scent of them: perfumed, shampooed, and after-shaven
A smell of food as breakfast downed on buses, trams to anywhere.
Amidst the motion, a pin-point picture, inside the mind, shrine-like, protected.
A vision as an angel- twee , allowed to flourish beyond the misery.
A dirt encrusted man does roam among the people waiting on.
From up a perch, across cut grass, the writer-watcher makes his cast(e)
And in the mold of pen and paper erects a notion of this day.