38 yrs—on,

As my eyes now fixed abysmally
Ahead of some far distant point
Way-down Market Street, Piccadilly
Time lurches-on, takes my viewpoint

Full-circle, and where once waist high
I had stood, did clumsy, another
Colliding into me”38 yrs—on, shuteye”
Yet; luckily for me no-ambusher...

His ice-cream cornet wasn’t too hand
Nor the boy’s long lost, father, offhand?