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Beauty is my twenty ninth book of poetry, it includes the poem Air.

The city,
the air,
smoggy,
and unclean.
The noise,
and the hustle and the bustle,
and the misery,
and the poverty,
and the violence,
and the drugs,
and the temptations of sin,
they are all around,
as a Vicar walks through the rain in Soho,
with a cheerful grin,
carrying something in a brown paper bag,
something obscene?
Something for a Nun,
something for both of them,
something for a wild night in?
Well, quite possibly judging by his cheerful grin.
And then, he trips over the curb,
and he drops his paper bag,
and out pops some postcards,
and they are rather boring,
and not much to write home about,
but the day has left me yawning,
and it is all work, work, work,
and here I am on lunch,
with my imagination running wild,
well, temporarily because of the Vicar with his cheerful grin,
oh, forgive Father me I say to myself, for I have sinned,
by casting aspersions on you,
but oh, what could have been,
what could have been,
I say silently to the Vicar with a cheerful grin,
and he picks up his postcards,
and rather sadly I have to go back to work,
to be boring again,
and work I truly think is a sin.

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