The Euston Road. April. Night. <br />Of all these London numberless <br />I love one: <br />my old shoes pound her name, <br />Lorna. Lorna. <br />Poet's shoes. <br />Now I SEE faces pass, <br />projected on her photoplay <br />for not being Lorna: <br />I have never felt this living, <br />thirty and a day <br />in artificial light and rain <br />and windscreen tear-blink.<br /><br />Richard George<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-walking-sadness/
