He walks with a swing,
A skinny, lanky, frame-
In a designer suit:
Swinging like a catwalk model,
Giving it a bit of this & that, with a zing!
A curious, secret, smile; framed by sparkling, knowing eyes-
Casting admiring looks from side-to-side; at taken-aback passers-by!
As he makes his way down the paved street-
In a dead straight line; whirling around impediments (with a smile, & a bob of the peaks)! Like in times gone by, with
a bowler hat…
Though this young man’s head is completely un-adorned, with nought but a haircut of modern accord-
One hand held aloft for balance or effect, none know not;
In the other, he carries a black walking stick, apparently of fine workmanship,
He waves it with extravagant gusto & flourish-
To appease the disgruntled overtaken & give pause to the snickering sticklers & quick-draw abusers;
For his journey is of particular import:
To strike two unsuspecting city loners (oft making eye contact but too afraid to talk) with Cupid’s arrow (or, in this case, a walking stick!)-
A bolt of lightning, buying a moment in each other’s busy (yet unfulfilled lives)- to give an opportunity to tentatively exchange smiles and (finally) talk!
Not every strike finds love, in the end, he knew;
A chance is all he gives,
And, the rest, is, up to you!