How to be underground.

Next stop: Finsbury Park. 
Mind the gap 

I've got baggage.
heavy, head nods yes, heavy hearted
with these belongings to which I belong.
Two bags too big, one voice too small.
A pseudo communter not equipped for this at all.

I am in all of London's way: sorry sorry sorry.

A few more stops on the central line
we exist in conflicting meal 
times now we sing about crossing oceans.

I sit on the tube arms tied by paranoia, annoyed at how untrusting I am becoming.
The drinking water is disgusting and the drinking age is irrelevant.  
Use your driver's license instead of your passport.

Shadows cast by time past grow. 
Final sentiments were meant 
to be profound but have developed blurred.
We all had Pinocchio smiles that night at the departure gate.

The longer you love a memory the stronger and stranger it gets. 

Our words have sagged. Speaking sometimes



Skype is experiencing technical difficulty processing all this away-ness.

197 stairs today up up and away, and 
Covent Garden doesn't know what to do with so much sun.
How much greener the grass is on the other side
when concrete volcanoes are it for now.

I do like how they do tea here. 


1 comment:

  1. Anonymous5.9.13

    Good poem Sneaky Sneak! Sad, too. And raw. Hope you find your way there. It's a great, tough, grim, brilliant, exhausting, unsentimental city. Give it time. And aim high!