MIND THE GAP

Flying above the quaint little houses under Heathrow. London looks dirty, but I keep this epiphany to myself in the baggage claim. I land to a red-faced drunk at an outdoor pub. He swaggers with unwavering condence. The brewing tension of a street ght. Each step is like broken glass exploding on cobblestone that has seen quarrels centuries old. Slated in nostalgic hubris. A nation birthed the oldest child. It’s too cold, and too mean. But poets, they hate everything. So I keep calm And FUCK OFF.