Zuni's, Teddy-boys and Other Thoughts.

I'm walking in the Zuni Mountains,
red and purple mesas standoffish, distant,
I'm stuffing my nose, strong pinyon, heavy sage,
turkey dressing desert perfume.

I'm here, serene, environmentally intoxicated, but can't
stop thinking of London. It comes back to me, the morning news,
of terrorism, sick and stark, the evil catching me offguard.
So I remember better times, the arroyo clouding over.

Nice ladies in Soho want to solve my problems,
Nice lads in sedan brush closely by at high speed,
At my response they back up, truly ugly,
At my pissed aggression they drive off. I run like hell and,

I'm in Picadilly, red-headed business-woman
applies for job as tour-guide. I am young.
I experience White Horse, Brian Mills, Prop.,
run by off-duty Coldstream, no bouncers needed here.

I drift from Scotch May, seeking a varied tour.
Irish girls, Lily Lyons and sister, gentler guides,
slower pace and brogue, we talk, Green Park, etc.
Radio says all Manchester United lost in crash.

The Circus, temporarily subdued, plays on,
and I move with the sidewalk symphony until
an eagle, shrieking at a mortal down below
opens my mind to chaparral, and home.

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