BUS NUMBER THIRTEEN
I sent my cat to Koolkerke
on a bonny white Number Four.
And where do you think it stopped?
At Misty Van Nevel’s door.
I wonder how many people
can see that Gemini Moon
floating above the Market
like a peaceful barrage balloon.
My wife in the hands of the doctor,
a piece of metal removed.
Two letters to foreign ladies
by whom my work is approved.
So ‘back to the old masquerade’
as poor old Leonard remarked
in one of those tedious tunes
he typically mumbled and barked.
Not many clouds in the sky
and most of them painted red
by a rising Scorpio Sun
from the House of the Dead.
In memory of Laetitia Couldwell,
the grandmother no-one mentioned.