For Andy Levine

At seven-thirty, when they unlocked the gate,
he wandered out into a world of light.
The local bus to the ferry left at eight,

so he climbed aboard, refocusing his sight
to long perspectives, feeling slightly sick
at the foreign movements, fighting to ease his fright.

The houses hurried by, a blur of brick
at a speed he was unused to. Calm, just stay calm;
a few deep breaths would likely do the trick,

would pacify his every mounting qualm.
He thought of quaffing down a pint of beer,
of setting, once again, his own alarm.

What could he do to quell the coming fear
of city streets that could only do him harm,
of living with his past, year after year?
Categorized as Poems

By Arthur Richardson

Very part time poem maker. Retired from paid work.

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