A Walking Sadness
The Euston Road. April. Night.
Of all these London numberless
I love one:
my old shoes pound her name,
Lorna. Lorna.
Poet's shoes.
Now I SEE faces pass,
projected on her photoplay
for not being Lorna:
I have never felt this living,
thirty and a day
in artificial light and rain
and windscreen tear-blink.
poem by Richard George
Added by Poetry Lover
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