Roving packs you eel your way
through pay no mind to what must, if they see,
look like a shadow loping along alone,
now slowing, stopping for the misted warmth
etched panes suffuse in the Hound and Rose's matched
bilateral doors. Ale glow that lights up half
of the fatman's baldpate football head,
left paw cupped to his mobile ear,
the splayed right cranking up and down
as his tenor wades alive-o into the rant.
Leave him behind then for that mid-bridge figure
(my body double?), more than half involved
with swirls and frills of foiled reflections
on the black stream coursing under …
A water no less cold than cash, it will
or will not clutch him to its heaving silk.
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