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!)-

In essence:

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!