The Commercial Tavern

All of London sweats in a haze of diesel
while I wait outside the Commercial Tavern,
wait, but not for any profound adventure,
only for evening.

Laced with comfort, time and a quart of porter,
basking through the noise of a thousand engines,
mine the grand diversion of contemplating
other men working.

Hills and books have shown me a lark ascending,
counselled me to cherish Divine creation.
These I'll gladly trade for a builder heaving
muck on a shovel.

William's early morning of inspiration
taught him how the city in sleep is lovely.
Still, he might have waited until the business
really got started.

Drinking beer and sunlight in equal measure,
pleased to watch the scaffolders ply their mission -
not to let one glorious breast or buttock
pass without comment.