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.