This little sketch is based upon a character who roamed the streets of London when I was a boy. I clearly recall him wearing a battered Top Hat while dancing an improvised solo gig at Speakers Corner. According to legend and rumour he departed the family home forever on the very day that he had inherited the property from his wealthy father. From that day forward he lived as a vagrant. On one occasion I shared my packed lunch with him in Regents Park.He seemed to be the type of person who loved a simple life.- I dedicate this poem to my Sufi Soul Mate , who will fully understand.
She asked me to cut holes in my shoes
to prove that I love her.
I did so, with romantic swagger
and theatrical gesture;
It was no mean act to hole my only shoes.
When finished, she quietly thanked me
and then, kissing the tips of her fingers, neatly
turned upon her heal, smiled whimsically
and skipped off down the pathway
Lifting her skirt from the puddles.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter
July 18th. 1966 - August 23rd. 2012.
August 7th. 2015.
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