Park and Ride

There are awful autumn days
and there are funny and rebarbative autumn Tuesday mornings
with its never-ending rains.
I’m long done with King Leopold’s Ghost
and at the crossroads between Lille and Wechelderzande
with the minutes closing on in the nearest half hour,
comes a noble man
who saves the day,
not in an apple-polish manner,
just an unusual goodhearted and so considerate man,
whose thoughts are noble and blameless.

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Not For His Words

Don’t fall for his words, poems,
poetry or whatever
Please, please don’t fall for his poems,
they are just unsaid words,
unfinished sentences and sometimes deserted
thoughts
Maybe some day, maybe some day,
maybe some day, maybe some day
he’ll muster all the courage in this world
and pour out his heart to you
Maybe one day, maybe just one day,
he’ll turn the coin on its head
Maybe some day, maybe some day,
maybe sooner rather than later,
maybe sooner rather than later,
he’ll refuse to beat about the bush
Maybe sooner rather than later,
he’ll hit the nail right on its head
Maybe some day,
you’ll finally hear the sound of his gavel
So please, please don’t fall his words, poems,
poetry or whatever
They are just words yet unsaid,
words that lie asunder,
words with no assigned meanings
He is good with words and subtle at heart
So maybe he is just searching for the right words
So don’t fall for his words