The Momentary Free Verse by Ernest Williamson

free
later in the daze
I grab
millions
of floating tears
from the sky
watching them splatter
on my hands
like arthritic
pains
like algorithms with sharp
peaks
across a dainty street
in late October
when daze is manifest
throughout the coming
holidays
but out of a stupor
comes lines of lead
business
stress
alacrity
of various mobilities
running without poetry
without
the transcended
whiffs
muttering
Lennon’s
Imagine
so now I’m 75
and autumn is upon me
and drones of men and women
are at it again
bustling to make deadlines
to tend to reality
but for me
like an ambitious homeless man
smoking a cigar
in the apathetic rain
imagination
for the sake of escape
is all of what is
everything
in a word
verse