This morning

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.


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