Smoking, leaning, shook out
from the gambling shop
this shrinkage
patting down his pockets,
positive the three o'clock
at Epsom
is as good as El Dorado
or his dreams of horses.
One day
when the revolution's done,
when hope is not some shiny
squalid thing
for one-armed bandits,
I will know him.
Standing in the florist's door
distributing the wreaths
for V-Day. Just you wait;
I am a betting man,
I'm sure of it.
