Or dying, by it.
The brush strokes of my life lie thinly veiled
Beneath the glossy veneer, of this charming smile.
Endearing me to a city that I do not know
Or is it the foreign dollar that, unbeknownst to me, opens those doors.
Where they say three climes, in a day, can come and go.
Where every rain chases away laughter
And every drain, gurgles with pending disaster.
They say that these rouge bonhomies have sponge brain
Not a communicable disease, but a talent no less,
Who yap with accents that can make even cockneys cringe.
A true impressionist would use delicate colour
But in this drear city what better postcard can I offer
That captures this venture from the new world to the old.
Shafeesthoughts 28th January 2018
A London Cabbie’s passengers story.