AT THE ALCHEMY
AND THE WALKER
At either end of this blanched tale I could not live at all.
35 W15th or not, we take a more few steps towards
dodging light and land. I soon will want for nothing at all.
They will write my name in lights : foxglove and cirrus
clouds, meander balustrades and Pomander Walk.
Twenty years ago, I would have been the blind man
circuiting the street with a bottle and a hunk of gin in
a wrap of cheese and bad clothing. Thirty years ago,
I would have been the man with the knife to kill you
with, for a wallet, a few cards, a watch and a ring,
and - perhaps - if time allowed, your daughter
or your wife. Things were like that then, and
crime was rife. Now they set clocks by the
mantlepiece marble, the gay men walk
two by two in their clutches, and
nowhere now more is seen
nothing but money.
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