The Number 52

He lives at his friend Victoria’s
And although a man of the people,
He sees everyone so briefly,
Perhaps, it’s he because gets bored of us.

Morning journeys begin, usually full to the brim,
Through the streets of London and the capital’s din.
Once on the move, only hard hats stop his groove.
Whether off to work or aiding a whim,
Rarely is anyone not pleased to see him.

He starts by peaking in the Queen’s Garden,
And then makes sure he salutes the Duke.
Careful drivers they beg his pardon,
And the cyclists life is but a fluke.

He heads up west past Albert and his Hall,
Before climbing north toward Portobello and the stalls.
He weaves through the Gate,
Picking up those early and late,
The law of the sod says you only wait when you’re late,
Although truth be told, he is part of their lives
He does not really decide their fate.

Carnival country is where is he starts his ascent,
Money and fame came, some soul, well it went.
Over the canal he glimpses Paradise,
A fleeting vision, the reality Kensal Rise
All the while an android woman states the obvious
and the eclectic crowd remain oblivious.

The scarlet transporter heads toward its journeys end
Willesden Green, the last of the bends.
Now remember this, if he keeps you a while,
To think of your family and what makes you smile,
Because when he is tardy you will likely discover,
That more often than not, he turns up with his brother.

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