David, this is the kind of poem I’m always trying to write—a vivid snapshot of another time. It’s far from my home ground, but I’m there. Another of yours on the cusp between met and non (largely iambic tet), but it sings, as your poems always do.
I love it that “the gorgeous East” was Liverpool. I wonder if you’d like to play with the exoticism even more by calling it something like “the storied East.”
A gear ending. (Can I say that? We used to call things “bad” when they were good, but I’d never heard “gear.”)
|