Monday, 10 March 2014
cloaked in a low sky and shuffling
along with the other furrowed brows
I search for the accents of my youth
“Tomato” or “Tomahto” or “Tomata.”
“Aunt” or “Ant” or “Auntie”
Punching my cold fists into a
Harrods jacket I enter the tube,
shortly reaching a grey gray
station and see the pub with an
old fashioned clock against the
familiar liquored mirror,
damn, it’s way past our meeting time,
am I at the right place?
I really could go for
comfort food now, we need this
“Buffalo Wings?” Or is it “Fish and Chips?”
Which of these do I want?
Eh, it’s too late for such a search.
A sudden hiss of wind
angrily flaps my jacket, and
taps my shoulder—
as a stranger does when they have
wandered too far and need
The rain falls.
The sun falls.
The fog falls.
The days fall from the harboring arms of mothers.
I walk alongside the parceled flats,
pausing at a low bridge and look out at
the bruised dusk of the Old World
as the wind swings my bag like a beacon
against the cold.
Oh, come now - and dance with me
Published in The Storyteller Magazine, Spring 2014, “11 months in London”