SUNDAY IN CHELTENHAM
There is no joy in this rustic meditation
upon the dried foliage.
Sunday’s foreplay with absence
Of an act.
Your Gothic mood in city’s mirror
Spells a medieval urgency,
To escape from sedentary lull
that crown the Sunday’s
Here and there naked steps of adolescence
Borrow sun’s heat
reproduce it in
I am undone by the dogged ring of desire’s no end,
chase it with a blind innocence;
of its insufferable recant.
Which on Sunday’s, naked hunger for a feast
I warm scant pieces of bronze in my pocket,
to offer your blurred image in the distance.
As walking scents of affluence
Tell tale of town’s vain heritage.
I relieve Sunday of its settled routine
By a retiring ritual of cafe chairs lugged in
Under evening’s closing grace.
As the sun falls, sinking,
the evening bids farewell.