On Seymour Street I walk to work, and oft
I pass the time reciting sundry verse.
In traffic I can speak—quite loud or soft—
As I my memory's confines rehearse.
I know by heart my favourite—"Kubla Khan"—
Followed by "Ozymandias" alway.
Next comes "The Second Coming"'s denouement
And "Richard Cory" then, without delay.
"The Tyger"'s blazing head I soon describe
And, to conclude my spirited parade,
I launch into King Richard's diatribe
And walk into the office, thus allayed.
This morning, near a crossing of two roads,
While waiting for the traffic lights to change,
A man spied my poetic episode,
And seems to have assumed I was deranged.
So on we walked to work, a foot apart:
He, glaring quietly at his new foe,
And I, performing interloper's parts
In my recitativo's cadent throes.
To clarify: I did not hound or troll
The man whose morning I by chance debased.
I counseled then my thoughts—"Dive to my soul!"
And he, to make escape, took up his pace.