Twin Towers

many lives depend

upon

red faced

rectangles

running with rain

water

far above the grey

pavement.

Self Pity on a train

On a grey winter’s day, this cold’s no joke!

I’m on my way into the Smoke

where clouds won’t break, the sun won’t show her face.

No one speaks, there’s no embrace.

So, what is this grieving for a body’s loss?

In the end, I’ll get my sweet release from pitch and toss

but now it’s time to sow some seeds –little deeds.