Once in London

Poems came then fast as rain
And Battersea smokestacks
Said they’d make no difference

But the man, the young man
Wrote for himself a boat
Steadfast old Vainamoinen

Sailing to the land of the dead
With yellow fruit
And dark bread

Beetles glistening
In the garden
Tiny windows

Reflecting sunlight
Then talking to himself
In taxicabs