London

Is the rain in summer,
a brief snow in spring.
It is the spirit of our fridays,
A shotful each of vodka, songs
and silence, the freezing wind
that follows us home in the morning .

It is the taste of dill, sage, salmon,
the play of quiet pleasures to
fleeting days. The death of spring,
the park at nightime. Of blackness, trees,
of crows and squirrels and their toothy lives.

It is the whims of sadness and affection
the act of masks and ommissions,
the joys and lightness portrayed
for an audience.

Butterfly lights and champagne,
shimmering crowds, the embankment, crumbs
of museums and memories,
of tired feet and muffins
left behind on a river bench.

London is the little things in our little lives,
A smile, the smell of pad thai,
Vishnu’s nod and the blur of
colors, races and staccatoes
of tongues in the pavement,
this small purple wooden cube--
mementoes from the great fires.