by Paul Tristram
Jet-lagged and halfway
into my second pint of coffee.
My blood-shot, black-ringed eyes
peer from under a British moss green,
corduroy flat hunting cap.
I bite into my bacon, egg and gouda
artisan roll,
brushing the falling crumbs off
the dog-eared paperback cover
of ‘Hunger’
that I have in my possession.
I have an hour and a half
left to read and contemplate a little
until she picks me up
and takes me into ‘Old Sac’
for an old school razor shave.
I am going to buy a top hat,
why? because I can!
it will match my 8-ball walking cane
and make me smile to myself, ah.
Lake Tahoe in 6 days time
for something very special,
Las Vegas in 9 days
and then San Francisco after that.
We were sleeping in Cleveland Square,
in the Heart of London, night before last
and in Cornwall the night before that.
I shall get back to Mr. Hamsun’s book
in just a wee moment
but right now I am just
soaking up the experience of just being me.
Stripped down and unique
as travelling always does,
my Welsh, gypsy blood is a-purring
on this bright Autumn Californian morning.
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