Sunday With Dickens
I don’t know if you’ll remember me.
We shared a park bench near midday
on an unprecedented April afternoon.
The sun had bid me stay and read awhile.
I opened a pocket edition of Pickwick.
I heard the gentle clearing of a throat,
looked over to the opposite end of the bench,
saw you looking in my direction,
smiling but slightly as strangers do.
You were probably curious
about the strangeness of my clothes.
“What are you reading,” you asked.
“The Pickwick Papers. Do you know it?”
“Yes I do.” you said to me,
“In fact it was I who wrote it.”
I might have thought your statement immodest
on any ordinary day.
This not being one of those
I asked, “is it any good?”
“I think so;” was your reply,
“A lot of people bought it.”