Crossing over marbled sentiments for the ancient dead in Westminster Abbey.
In search of tea at the Orangery.
To every darkened pub and doorway.
Propelled to Covent Garden Market, the entertainer’s opened cage,
bearing witness to the bravado of an opera singer hoping for change.
Swelling into the pavement, a Piccadilly dalliance.
Poised in reverence, before the ringing steps to St. Paul’s entrance
State of rest in theater stalls,
Cross legged in the tube,
And dangling from the fountains of Trafalgar;
THERE they get to hover.
Tired, blistered, pulsating, yet they can’t stop moving to discover.
* I wrote this poem quite a few years ago, after a trip I took to England.