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For Sorrow - 12/09/2001

Superstition swoops from the sycamores
thieving all good fortune.
Hexing like a voodoo priestess.

High above the morning carnage
where commuters vie for position
and jostle for elusive momentum,

a black and white pickpocket
relieves me of my peace of mind.
Casting feathered curses all the while.

I quiet my irrational apprehension
and wish him luck in finding a mate
so he can turn my sorrow into joy.
 
© Nicholas Vosper 2001