Miles

Miles had a sweaty brow
Reclining on the mottled roofs
Of Catholic schools
In May –
A musky man, perhaps, but then, ideal.

Miles had a speech impediment
That pulled heartstrings,
That pulled little sailboats
Through Frensham Ponds,
In warm Mediterranean weather.

Miles, usually absent from my mind,
Exists today –
Exists somewhere (and here)
Because my leg is black…
My leg is warm in trousers.

His summer is a rose-garden –
A walled Georgian gallery
Of tethered pear and apple trees,
Foxed pages
And Boswell’s Life of Johnson.

I’d entertain reincarnation
As Samuel Johnson
On the proviso that the brown plaque
Remains by my door,
To the benefit of milkmen.

by Col. Baldwüllz

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